AN EXCURSION
Balfour, when the three started on their afternoon expedition, was in a
particularly happy frame of mind.
"There's one advantage in working all summer--a half holiday seems ten
times more valuable now than usually. Not that I'm working hard this
summer, only my days are not my own, and I can seldom make plans;
besides, I do begrudge the time that I have to take from study."
"Then you will probably think to-day wasted."
"No, indeed; besides, we are going to study nature, and--"
"A little French history," interposed Martine. "Did you not say that you
would take us to an old battleground?"
"Yes, I hope to, for my steed is not like Jill. We can depend on getting
somewhere with Lion, whereas Jill--"
"Mr. Frazer would say that she went fast enough the day he rode her in
my company."
"It's a great thing for a horse to know when to stop, as well as when to
go on. Whoa, Lion! There, we can leave him standing while we go up that
little hill. It's said to be the site of an ancient French church. It
may interest you."
Amy and Martine loudly praised the beauty of the scenery as they stood
on the elevated land above the narrow, winding river.
"They say that a church stood here in the earliest French days, with a
set of silver bells that rang out most musically over the water. Then,
when the church fell to pieces, the bells sank into the earth, and are
hidden somewhere underground,--and any one who likes may dig for them."
Martine began to prod in the earth with her parasol.
"Come, my dear, we won't have time to-day, and you need a crowbar rather
than that tiny stick. If you found them they would be rather too clumsy
to carry home;" and Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm.
"I'd rather look for Apostle spoons," replied Martine. "I heard of a
woman who dug up two in her garden, and when she saw how dirty they
were, threw them into a kettle of lye that she happened to have boiling
for soap, or something of that kind. She almost lost her head when the
ugly lead things came out looking like gold, for they were silver washed
with gilt. If she found such things, why not I, for it's a true story,
isn't it?" turning to Balfour.
"Oh, yes, fairly true, and there's always a chance of finding something
by digging long enough. But I would never waste my time digging, except
with hoe and spade, for fruit and vegetables. There's good money," he
concluded, "in strawberries here in Nova Scotia. In Annapolis I know a
man who has several acres, and in good seasons he gets two thousand
boxes a day."
"Strawberries! Aren't apples the prize crop here?"
"Yes, and more certain than anything else. A man can get $300 an acre
from a good orchard. If money were the only thing I'd rather be a farmer
than a lawyer down here."
"That's better than some gold mines," said Amy, as they turned and
walked down the hill to the carriage.
"When I was a small shaver," continued Balfour, "and had plenty of time
to spare, I used to walk there along the top of the dykes of Annapolis.
From the base of seven or eight feet it narrows to hardly a foot at the
top, and I can tell you that it was ticklish work keeping a footing."
"Why didn't I know of that before?" cried Martine. "I certainly should
have tried it. I love to walk on railroad tracks, and dyke-walking must
be almost the same."
"You can't try anything of that kind while you are in my care,"
interposed Amy. "The river is probably deeper than it looks, and if you
should go too near the edge--"
"Oh, I can swim, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, though, to put your careful
soul at ease, I'll promise not to go near the water. All the same, I
wish that I were an Indian, at this very moment gliding down from Minas
to Digby. Didn't you tell me that this was one of their favorite
routes?" and she turned to Balfour for a reply.
"Why, yes," he replied, "from any point outside Minas they used to glide
over to French Cross, then by a portage of four miles to Aylesford, and
they would be borne on by the current down the Annapolis River,
sometimes as far even as Digby."
"French Cross?" asked Amy. "What have I heard of French Cross?"
"Perhaps of the awful winter there that some of the Acadians passed
through, just after the deportation."
"Tell me about it," cried Martine, eagerly. "I never heard of it."
"Well, after the Acadians had been put aboard the ships at Grand Pre,
some friendly Micmacs hurried down secretly to warn the French at the
eastern end of Annapolis. When they heard the news, about sixty Acadians
decided on flight, and with a Micmac guide began to make their way
north. They hoped to reach a point on the shore where the English would
not see them, from which they could cross over to New Brunswick, and
then get the protection of the French at Quebec. But when they reached
Aylesford they did not dare try to cross. Their food was poor, sickness
broke out among them, many died, and were buried in the soft Aylesford
sand. The others went on to French Cross, but still did not dare cross
the Bay. During the bitter cold of December, while they were suffering
everything, they saw the last of the transports pass down the Bay,
carrying their countrymen to the southern colonies. Many died during the
winter, and when spring came the friendly Indians made birch-bark canoes
for the remainder, who then crossed in safety to the New Brunswick
shore."
"Man's inhumanity to man," sighed Amy, sentimentally.
"What wretches the English were!" exclaimed Martine, more energetically.
"Remember, please, that I am English;" and Balfour raised his hand in
remonstrance. "Besides, the persecutors of the Acadians were not
English, but your fellow New Englanders, who took the whole matter on
themselves, without asking leave of any one else."
"But I am no New Englander," objected Martine.
"Oh, it's all the same. Some of your ancestors were from New England
undoubtedly, unless you are different from most Chicagoans. But if you
repudiate New England, you cannot object to my arousing your sympathies
for some of those exiled Loyalists who suffered quite as much as the
over-pitied Acadians."
"It's a shame Priscilla is not here," murmured Martine.
Now Balfour was not likely to speak idly, and in a moment he had begun
his recital.
"The old lady who told this story to my mother was visiting Annapolis
from Fredericton, and her mother, the daughter of an officer in a New
Jersey regiment, experienced all the hardships that she described. The
vessels with these New Jersey officers and soldiers and their families
went up the St. John River in early October, and landed at a place
called St. Ann's, that later became Fredericton, the capital of the
Province. It was a wet, cold season, and the people had no shelter but
tents, that they tried to cover with spruce boughs. Their floor was the
ground, and when snow fell in early November the old lady's mother said
that her family tried to shut it out by putting their one rug against
the opening. Often a part of the family had to sit up all night to keep
the others from freezing. When everything else failed they would heat
boards at the fire, and hold them over the children to give them needed
warmth."
"A likely story!" and Martine smiled.
"Indeed, it is perfectly true," rejoined Balfour, gravely. "Many men and
women died of exposure and lack of food that terrible winter. Their
graves were dug with pickaxe and shovel, in the hard ground not far from
the tents. Like the Acadians at French Cross, they had no clergyman to
pay the last rites. They had been used to comfortable and pleasant
homes, and many of them had had wealth; so it was doubly hard to have to
live in Indian fashion on fish, and moose, and berries. In the spring
they made maple sugar, and killed pigeons. There was great rejoicing
when the first vessels came with corn and rye. They were in constant
fear of the Indians, and it was long before they could live even half
decently."
"I have always sympathized with the Loyalists," said Amy, quietly.
"Oh, well, it's all over now," returned Balfour, bitterly. "But it must
have been hard for many of them to remember that their houses and lands,
and even their personal property, had been passed over to people who to
them seemed to have no shadow of right to it."
"Do you care now?" asked Martine, gently.
"Oh, no;" but Balfour's tone belied his words. "My family did not suffer
so much as some, though we had to start here in Annapolis with little
besides the land that the King granted."
"Back to the soil is a good thing sometimes."
"Oh, yes, and Nova Scotia was very hospitable to the poor Loyalists; but
still--to tell the truth, sometimes I wish that I had grown up on the
other side of the line. There seems to be more chance in many ways;" and
Balfour sighed.
Amy looked at Balfour in surprise. He was evidently considerably her
junior, yet he talked like one much older.
"I should like to see him and Fritz together," she thought. "I believe
that Fritz would appear five years younger, for he always persists in
talking like an overgrown boy."
"There," concluded Balfour, "I have said too much. On the whole, I am
contented, and the Province offers more than many corners of the world
to an ambitious young man, so enough said. Now, just see, I was so
absorbed in harrowing your feelings over the Loyalists that I have taken
a wrong turn, and we are now so far from the battleground that we'll
have to give it up this afternoon."
"'All roads are alike to me,'" hummed Amy, while Martine added, "But the
scenery here is lovely. Just see how the North Mountain stands out, with
that little fringe of mist hanging about the top, and I've never seen so
many fine orchards. Oh, I wouldn't have missed this particular drive for
anything;" and her flushed cheeks and beaming eyes showed that she had
meant what she said.
"The drive has been full of pictures, too," added Martine. "I've seen a
great many things even that you have not spoken of, and whenever I look
over there toward the woods I fancy I see an Indian creeping along; not
an unfriendly savage, but one with a smile on his face, hoping perhaps
to be asked by Lescarbot to stay to dinner at the Fort."
"Yes," rejoined Balfour, "one of those jolly fellows who objected to the
wording of the Lord's Prayer in asking for bread, saying that bread
alone wouldn't do for him, as he needed moose, and fish besides."
"Yes, and some of the French dishes that they favored him with
occasionally."
"Well, I have heard many things that make me believe that the Indians of
Acadia were jokers. Some of the stories would shock you, I am afraid;"
and Balfour hesitated.
"Oh, we are not so easily shocked. Tell us, do."
"Very likely you've heard this particular thing. But it is said that one
of the men in that first expedition of the French undertook to make a
dictionary, and when he tried to get some of the natives to give him the
Micmac for various sacred names, the Indian gave him words that were
just the contrary,--almost profane, in fact,--so that the Frenchman made
himself very ridiculous when he tried to make use of his new
vocabulary."
"Which shows," said Martine, "that the Micmac Indian was not such a
serious and solemn creature as those that used to appear in our school
histories bewailing the advance of the white man. I always thought I'd
like to meet one of them."
"Why, Martine?"
"Yes, just for the pleasure of sticking a pin in him. He would never
have had spirit enough to turn his tomahawk against me. But these
Micmacs knew how to enjoy life. The dictionary maker was probably a
prim, conceited fellow, who deserved to be laughed at. Of course, in a
general way," she concluded hastily, "I am always on the side of the
French, and I love to remember that the old Fort once belonged to them."
"'When from Port Royal's rude-built walls
Gleamed o'er the hills afar,
The golden lilies on the shield
Of Henry of Navarre.
"'A gay and gallant company,
Those voyagers of old,
Whose life in the Acadian Fort
Lescarbot's verse has told,'"
recited Balfour, as they turned into St. George's Street, "and here we
are in sight of Fort Anne, and it pleases my soul that the flag floating
above is the flag of Great Britain."
"We won't quarrel about that now," said Martine, "for you have given us
the very pleasantest afternoon we've had."
"Yes," added Amy, "it has certainly been delightful, and so it is all
the harder to remember that this is probably our last excursion around
Annapolis,--at least, for the present."
"You are very good to appreciate our old town so, and I hope that you
will find Wolfville almost as attractive. I am sorry enough, however,
that you are going away. We shall miss you all;" and though emphasizing
"all," Balfour looked directly at Martine as he spoke. "My sister has
grown so fond of Miss Priscilla that she has forgotten her inborn hatred
for New Englanders, and I hope you'll understand that we all appreciate
your interest in Acadian history. I only trust I haven't bored you and
Miss Martine by my facts and reminiscences. I fear that I've been almost
garrulous."
"Oh, no, indeed, far from that;" and Martine's emphasis showed how
deeply she meant what she said.
At this moment they had reached their own door and the last good-byes
had to be said.
"I cannot come again this evening," Balfour explained, "but I'll see you
for a moment at the train."
Then, thrusting his hand into his pocket, with an exclamation he drew
out a small object that he held toward Martine. "I had almost forgotten,
but if you would take this," he cried, "for your collection, I would be
so pleased. It's in a better condition than most things they dig up;"
and as Martine took it, she saw that it was a small trowel, remarkably
bright, yet of a curious shape.
"Another Acadian relic. How kind you are!"
"This fork is for you, Miss Redmond. Even if you have not a collection,
it will interest you. The trowel," Balfour continued, "was almost as
bright as this when it was dug up, it had been buried so deep, and the
fork is of an odd shape. Of course they haven't any great value," he
concluded, "only they are genuine relics, as I know, for I dug them up
myself. I might have brought you a gridiron with a long handle and four
feet, but you would have found some difficulty in carrying it about, and
the little spade can be carried in your travelling-bag for use in
mending a broken dyke, or shaping bricks, if you happen to wish to mend
or build on the way. That at least was its original use, and the
fork--well, you can find many uses for it;" and he turned from Martine
to Amy.
Both girls found it hard to bid good-bye to Balfour. In spite of the
shortness of their acquaintance he was already an old friend, one whose
friendship they particularly valued.
"How sensible he is," sighed Martine, as they went indoors, "and to
think that he's only a year older than Taps!"
"A year older than--who?" asked Amy, thinking that she must have
misunderstood. "What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing--really nothing," replied Martine, hastily, with a
heightened color. "I was only thinking that Balfour Airton seems so very
much older than most boys of his age, and he knows so much more than
most students." Martine's words were hurried and nervous, and Amy
decided that she was more disturbed than she had expected her to be at
parting with her Annapolis friends.
But if Amy only suspected Martine's feelings, she had no difficulty in
deciding how Priscilla felt. She and Eunice had formed a most romantic
attachment for each other, and made no effort to hide the tears that
fell freely as they bade good-bye at the station. At the final parting
each threw her arms around the other's neck, and the bystanders tried
not to laugh when Eunice in her emotion knocked off Priscilla's hat and
entangled the cord of her eyeglasses in Priscilla's belt. But the
bystanders, if amused, were sympathetic, consisting as they did chiefly
of Dr. and Mrs. Gray, Balfour, and Mrs. Airton, and one or two other
friends whom the travellers had met during their weeks in Annapolis.
"Your tears, my dear Eunice," said Dr. Gray, "exactly express the
feelings of all the rest of us; and while we wish you, Mrs. Redmond, a
safe journey, it is perhaps not too selfish to hope that you and the
young ladies may look back to Annapolis as the brightest spot on the map
of your travels."
"Indeed, we shall," said Mrs. Redmond, cordially, "and--"
"All aboard!" called the conductor; "Good-bye," shouted Balfour; "Write
soon," sighed Eunice.
"Come back next summer," cried Dr. Gray.
"Perhaps sooner," responded Amy, and with a puff and a shriek the
"Flying Bluenose" glided off toward the real land of Evangeline.