a beauty. My skin was as smooth as yours; and my hair hung in curls
about my neck and face. At this time a whimsical gentleman, who had a
fancy to bring up a wife to his own liking, came to the alms-house: he
was pleased with my appearance, and selected me. He taught me himself,
and procured teachers for me, and from morning till night I was poring
over hard tasks: this lasted for three years, and perhaps Mr. Leslie,
for that was the gentleman's name, might have remained constant to his
purpose, but then I took the small-pox; and after lying at the gates of
death for weeks, I recovered, but with my face blotched and seamed as
you see it. For many months my eye-sight and hearing were gone, and when
I could see, my eyes had this cast in them, which looks as if I were
born cross-eyed.
"No one could blame Mr. Leslie for giving me up. I am sure I never did.
He placed me with a poor widow, and paid my lodging with her till I was
one and twenty, and gave me a draft on him for a hundred pounds, which
was to be paid when I came of age. With Mrs. Gordon I was happier than I
had ever been in my life. My book tasks I never had liked, but I sewed
or spun with Mrs. Gordon, from morning till night, without ever being
weary or discontented. She taught me her own ways, and she was noted
through the whole town, for her industry and neatness. She was a good
christian too, and she brought me up to fear God and to love his
service. She had one child--an only son, two years younger than myself.
He was sometimes wild and wilful, for his mother, though she was resolute
with every thing else, could never deny him. He was sometimes as I said,
wild and wilful--but when he was himself, he was the pleasantest lad in
the village, and the best. Mrs. Gordon was as a mother to me; and you
know it was natural I should love her son Richard; and I thought I but
loved him as a sister should, till one Sunday I saw him come up the
little path-way that led to our cottage, with a blue ribband bow in
his hand, which he kissed again and again, and then thrust it into
his bosom. I knew it was a love token from Sally Wilton the miller's
daughter, for I had seen it that day in her hat, and I felt a pang at
my heart, that told me it was not as a brother I loved Richard.
"I have skipped over many years, for I would not weary you. I was now
one and twenty, and my draft on Mr. Leslie was due. Mrs. Gordon began
to talk to me of marrying Richard. I only answered her with silence and
tears; but one woman can read another's heart, and she knew what was in
mine; and she, poor woman, thought to make all right by taking it into
her own hands.
"It so happened one night, that I was in an adjoining room when she
supposed I was absent from the cottage, and she put many questions to
Richard about me, but she could get no satisfaction from him. She then
told him (oh, at the moment I thought I could never forgive her for it)
she was sure I loved him. She said much in my favor, ma'am, that I
cannot repeat, and tried with it all to put a veil over my poor ugly
face, and then concluded with saying, for she was a thrifty woman, and
never lost sight of the main chance, that I should not come empty
handed. At this his spirit rose--he said, he would not be bought by all
the gold in the king's coffers. My heart rose to my lips, but I held
my breath, for his mother grew very angry, and said something from
Solomon's proverbs, about my being the virtuous woman whose price was
far above rubies. Then Richard burst into tears, and said he knew that,
and he would go round the world to serve me, but he could not marry me.
He confessed that he had already plighted his truth to Sally Wilton; and
he declared that he never would marry any body but Sally Wilton. His
mother lost all patience--she said he would make a beggar of himself for
life--that the Wiltons were an idle race, and that none of the name had
ever come to any good.
"A great deal more she said, but it seemed to me the more she talked,
the firmer Richard was in his own mind.
"You may be sure ma'am I did not close my eyes that night; my love had
been blasted, and my pride cast down. It was long before I could think
of any one but myself, or compose my mind to any good thoughts; but
when I began to see things in a right light, it seemed to me a pity we
should all be miserable together; and I began to contrive some way to
make Richard happy. He had just served his time with a shoemaker, but he
had no capital to enable him to set up for himself. I knew Sally Wilton
was a gay thoughtless thing; but so were most girls, and I believed that
when she was married, she would do her duty; to me it seemed, that
duty would be all pleasure with such a husband as Richard. I had some
struggles with my own heart, but before the morning light dawned, I had
made up my mind what to do. When I met Richard and his mother in the
morning, I was far the happiest of the three. She was angry, he was
sullen and downcast; but I had that feeling which I need not describe
to you ma'am, who have so often the power and the will to make others
happy. Immediately after our morning meal, I went and presented my draft
to Mr. Leslie's agent, and received my hundred pounds. Half the sum I
returned to him to invest for me, the other half I placed in the hands
of the shoemaker, with whom Richard had served his time, and with whom
he was a great favorite, and I requested him to lay it out in tools and
stock for Richard. The purchase was made--a little shop hired, and every
thing in readiness; and then I told Richard in the presence of his
mother what I had done. At first he said he never could accept so much
from me; but I told him, (and I smothered my feelings, and smiled when
I said it,) that in spite of his mother's fancies, it was as a sister I
loved him, and as a sister and older than himself too, I had a right to
provide for him. He was far more grateful and happy than I expected. His
mother gave her consent to his marriage, though grudgingly, for she was
a set woman, and she had no faith in Sally Wilton. They were married.
Richard was industrious, and we hoped would be prosperous, but as it
proved Mrs. Barton's distrust of Sally was too well founded. She was
idle and extravagant, and such a wife soon ruins a poor man. In five
years Richard was reduced to such straits, that in a fit of desperation
he enlisted. From the sorrowful day he came to take leave of us, for his
regiment was soon after sent to the East-Indies, his mother never had
a well day or a happy hour. After he went away, his wife led a vicious
life; and four years after she came to our door to beg a crust of
bread--a poor, wasted, sick, half-famished creature. We took her in.
To be sure she had been a sad sinner, but she was Richard's wife, and
besides it is always better to pity than condemn, and it is not for
the like of us ma'am you know, who have no hope but because God's
compassions fail not, to turn our backs upon a fellow-creature in sin
and misery.
"For a whole year she laid in a distressing sickness. Mrs. Barton had
become so old and feeble, that she could do nothing but pray for us,
and I had as you may suppose a toilsome life of it; but I was as I
trusted, doing my duty, and that makes a light heart, and according to
my experience ma'am, no one can be very wretched that has enough to do,
and that tries to do their duty faithfully, be that duty ever so humble.
We never suffered. Sally had some help from the charitable; and when we
had no other resource, I drew on my fifty pounds.
"It would have been a great comfort to us to have seen Sally take hold
of religion, when every thing else failed; but the poor soul was racked
with pains and coughing, and could only think of her suffering body, and
she was perfectly deaf too, and could hear nothing that the clergyman
said to her, though Mrs. Barton thought it right he should talk to her.
Oh ma'am, I think there is not a more mournful sight on the earth than
to see a young creature thus cut off by her sins.
"Richard returned to us two days before she died, but she did not know
him, and could not hear his forgiveness, though he spoke it over and
over again."
Mrs. Barton paused for a few moments, quite overcome by the recollection
of that sad period, and then resumed her story.
"And now came brighter days. Richard had endured many hardships, and
past through many temptations, but he had not lost his integrity. He
had come home in attendance on an officer who had obtained a furlough.
Not many months passed over before Richard expressed a wish to marry
me, though my little fortune was gone, and ten years had not as you
may suppose improved my beauty. Our mother said, our wedding-day was
the happiest of her life. She did not long survive it. Before my
husband rejoined his regiment she had gone to her rest. From that
time till Richard was taken prisoner by the Americans, we have never
been separated, and he has proved faithful and kind to me, and being,
as he is, all the world to me who have never known other kindred but
my little ones, it cannot seem strange to you, ma'am, that the world
is a lonely place without him; and that I should be willing to take
the help of your blessed children to get on my way to him."
"Oh no indeed, my good friend," said Mrs. Sackville, "I am delighted
that my children have found one so worthy of their assistance; you may
rest assured that we shall not part from you till we arrive at Quebec.
Come now Edward and Julia to your berths--and dream of the 'thousand
isles,' or Mrs. Barton, or what you will." The children obeyed their
mother, and doubtless had such sweet visions as hover about the pillow
of youth, and health, and innocence.
Jemmy Chapman had not been an uninterested listener to this simple tale
of patient virtue; and though Mrs. Barton had spoken so low that he had
lost some parts of her narrative, he heard enough to touch his kind
heart. As she rose from the bench near him, "Stop, stop, good woman,"
said he, and he jerked some tears from off his cheeks; "it is not much
that such as I can pity you, but a drop is something in a gill-glass,
and (turning his pockets inside out, and collecting a half handful of
small change,) I should not be my mother's son if I did not feel for a
woman in distress, and so will you just take this which may help to
raise a little breeze for you when you are becalmed. Nay, don't haul
off, but take it, and remember the poor sailors in a stormy night. It
is good luck to us to have a friend a-shore to speak a good word for
us when we have no time to speak for ourselves."
Jemmy's hearty kindness was irresistible, and Mrs. Barton received his
gift, scarcely able to command her voice to utter her thanks.
* * * * *
The next morning found the steam-boat at the wharf at Ogdensburg. Edward
undertook to settle with the captain for the passage of his protegees;
but the captain would receive nothing, and persisted in declaring that
he was amply compensated by Mrs. Barton's industry. The travellers
parted from him and from our friend Jemmy with expressions of the esteem
which their virtues even on this short acquaintance had not failed to
produce; and then they proceeded to make arrangements for their passage
down the St. Lawrence by chartering and provisioning a Durham boat.
While this was getting in readiness, Mrs. Sackville, whose curiosity,
like that of a more celebrated traveller, 'extended to all the works
of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of past
events,' walked with her children to view a rare curiosity on our
continent--an _American_ antiquity. On a point of land at the junction
of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, there is a broken stone wall,
the remains of a French fortification. While they stood surveying with
pleased attention this monument of the olden time, they were joined by a
gentleman who appeared like them to have been attracted to the spot by
curiosity. He took off his hat, bowed to Mrs. Sackville, and asked if he
might take the liberty to inquire of her whether she resided at
Ogdensburg.
When she replied in the negative, he begged her pardon, and said he had
been extremely anxious to authenticate a traditionary story he had
picked up in his journey through Canada, some of the events of which had
been located at this place. He had hoped to find some record of it in
Charlevoix's History, but he had searched in vain. Mrs. Sackville became
in her turn the inquirer. She said she delighted in those traditionary
tales, which, with the aid of a little fancy, reconstructed ruins, and
enclosed within their walls living beings with affections and interests
like our own; and she should hold herself very much obliged to the
gentleman if he would enrich her with some interesting associations with
this place. The stranger seemed highly gratified to have found so ready
a sympathy in his feelings, and he related the following particulars.
"A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect
their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois who was
before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was
the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by
her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this
neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win
her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but
all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name,
Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord--her love to her husband, to
her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual,
had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down
the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would
fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the
shore to greet him.
"On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was
filled with apprehensions natural enough at a time when imminent dangers
and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the
tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had
faded from the waters;--the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks
with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as
it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light
canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm--again she heard the leap
of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy
like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and
tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though
scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with
daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the
bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his
element, and battles and wounds were 'household words' with him. He
laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule,
they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound
of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and
son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in
hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind
Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without
the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling
the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of
orders--she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and
arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, "I am my mother's body-guard
you know." Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the
events that followed rendered them memorable.
"The distance," continued the stranger, "from the fort to the place
where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed.
Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore,
and were in the arms of ---- Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties
and resistance were alike vain. Resistance was made, with a manly
spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the
indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, who was
roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the
sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled
proudly on him as if he recognised in the brave boy, a scion from his
own stock.
"The indians had two canoes; Marguerite was conveyed to one, Louis to
the other--and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the
stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of
the river.
"Not a word nor cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose,
and when the canoe approached near the shore, he took off a military cap
he wore, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged, where he meant it
should, on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There
was a long white feather in the cap. The indians had observed the boy's
movement--they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult
whether they should return and remove the cap; but after a moment,
they again dashed their oars in the water and proceeded forward. They
continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed; hid their canoes
behind some trees on the river's bank, and plunged into the woods with
their prisoners. It seems to have been their intention to have returned
to their canoes in the morning, and they had not proceeded far from the
shore, when they kindled a fire and prepared some food, and offered
a share of it to Marguerite and Louis. Poor Marguerite, as you may
suppose, had no mind to eat; but Louis, saith tradition, ate as heartily
as if he had been safe within the walls of the fort. After the supper,
the indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had
taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis
to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners,
as you may imagine, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his
mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around
her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lighting;
the moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face
convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held a
crucifix to her lips, the other was on her rosary. The sight of his
mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of
the heroic boy--but he laid powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms.
He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh,
though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him.
At last the strong sleep, that in the depth of the night steeps the
senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him--his arms relaxed their
hold, and dropped beside him and left Louis free.
"He rose cautiously, looked for one instant on the indians, and assured
himself they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's
knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord that bound his mother
to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word--but with the least possible
sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the shore. Louis
in the confidence, and Marguerite with the faint hope of reaching it
before they were overtaken.
"You may imagine how often the poor mother, timid as a fawn, was
startled by the evening breeze stirring the leaves, but the boy bounded
forward as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.
"They had nearly attained the margin of the river, where Louis meant to
launch one of the canoes and drop down the current, when the indian yell
resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed,
pursued, and escape was impossible. Marguerite panic-struck, sunk to the
ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. "On--on, mother," he
cried, "to the shore--to the shore." She rose and instinctively followed
her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the
shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river.
Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watch word of the garrison, and
was answered by his father's voice.
"The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband,
infused new life into Marguerite. "Your father cannot see us," she said,
"as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that
thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes,
and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother
advanced a few steps into the water and stood erect, where she could be
distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was
recognised, and at the same moment, the indians who had now reached the
shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood
for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an
undaunted and resolved air--but with his followers the aspect of armed
men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled.
He looked after them, cried, 'shame!' and then, with a desperate yell,
leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite. The canoes were now
within a few yards--He put his knife to her bosom--"The daughter of
Tecumseh," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors,
but now by her brother's hand must she perish:" and he drew back his
arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow pierced his own
breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after
Marguerite was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow
unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's
canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers,
while his father's tears of pride and joy were poured like rain upon his
cheek."
The stranger paused, and Edward breathed one long breath, expressive of
the interest with which he had listened to the tale; and then said,
"You have not told us, sir, how the commandant was so fortunate as to
pursue in the right direction."
"He returned soon after Marguerite's departure, and of course was at no
loss to determine that she had been taken in the toils of her brother.
He explored the mouth of the Oswegatchie, thinking it possible that the
savages might have left their canoes moored there, and taken to the
land. Louis's cap and feather caught his eye, and furnished him a clue.
You have now my whole story," concluded the stranger; "and though I
cannot vouch for its accuracy, many similar circumstances must have
occurred, while this country was a wilderness, and my tradition is at
least supported by probability."
"You have not told us, sir," said Julia, "whether Mecumeh was really
killed. I do not see how Marguerite could leave him without finding out,
for after all, he was her brother."
"Marguerite," replied the stranger, "justified your opinion of sisterly
duty. Mecumeh was conveyed to the fort--the arrow was withdrawn, and
after a tedious illness, he recovered from the wound. There is too a
tradition that the pious sister converted him to the catholic faith; but
about this part of the story there seems to rest some uncertainty."
"And don't you know, sir," asked Edward, "what became of Louis
afterwards?"
"I really do not," replied the gentleman, smiling; "but I doubt not that
the man kept the promise of the heroic boy; and I think it extremely
probable that he has led some gallant fellows to those deeds of high
emprise which were achieved by the armies of Louis fourteenth."
"My dear children," said Mrs. Sackville, "you must really ask no more
questions. You will be good enough to pardon," she added, turning to the
stranger, "the eagerness of their youthful curiosity."
"Oh, madam," he replied, "the evidence of curiosity is the most grateful
reward to a story-teller, and I feel that my acknowledgements are due to
your children for their patient listening."
A few more courteous words passed, and the stranger bowed and departed.
"This was a lucky meeting, mother," said Edward; "this crazed leaning
wall looks quite interesting to me now. I can almost fancy I see
Marguerite and Louis issuing from the gate--Louis holding up the bow
and arrow that was to do such memorable service that night."