_A FORTIFIED RESIDENCE._
“I SHOULD like the Indians to know that we understand the use of the
paddle! I don’t absolutely deny that these savages possess some skill in
constructing a canoe; but, I ask you, have they the address to give it
the daintiness of form which renders ours so coquettish as they dance
upon the water? This is not a canoe—it is a feather—a bird that skims
the air—a cloud chased by the wind—it should fly! You may see what
marvels of swiftness that of M. du Chesne will perform directly.” So
spoke a tall Canadian, whose skill as a boatman had gained him the title
of “le Canotier.”
Madame de St. Helène stood cloaked and hooded in black lace, an elegant,
dignified figure whose appearance savored too much of the refinement of
urban life to be in harmony with this rustic scene. Her two little
children, attended by servants, were beside her.
“I would we were safe within the shelter of Ville Marie,” she said
wistfully. “Once we quit the stone walls of the fort who can say what
trouble may assail us.”
“Oh! for that, trouble comes soon enough; it is not worth our while to
search for it, Jeanne,” her husband returned lightly. “The question now
to be considered is our immediate start. Why, I wonder, do we linger?”
The canoes were ready. Soldiers and workmen gathered around them looking
expectantly toward the fort. Among these a woman pushed her way,
scolding, laughing, gesticulating. Nanon was a comely woman of her
class, strong and thick-set, with a face full of piquancy and vivacity.
Brown as a berry was this daughter of southern France, with red cheeks
and eyes black as sloes. She wore a brown petticoat, a crimson apron
with a bib, and a coquettish lace cap with hanging lappets. At every
vehement movement her long gold earrings quivered and jingled.
“Behold! Madame, Mademoiselle and these gentlemen all are accommodated,
and I but attend the good pleasure of the Sieur du Chesne,” she
protested in high, shrill tones.
“Eh, corbleu! but no, this good Nanon awaits no convenience of mine,”
remonstrated a laughing boyish voice; “there is place in the craft of
Sans Quartier for thee, my girl. Diane has promised to share my canoe,
father,” turning to Le Ber, who stood by an amused listener, “and I have
no hesitation in wagering that it is we who shall reach Lachine first.”
“Hein, no!” Nanon reduced her forehead to an inch of tight cords,
crossed her arms, and shook herself from side to side in the most
approved style of obstinacy. “I have morals, me, even in the wilderness.
It is necessary to remember _les convenances_. In our country ladies are
guarded under the care of their mothers, as the hen gathers her chickens
under her wings. My demoiselle has been confided to my care by Madame la
Marquise; not a step, not a shadow of a step, moves my young lady
without my attendance. Madame counts upon my faith.”
“It is I who am responsible to Madame la Marquise for Mademoiselle de
Monesthrol; nor is it likely that surrounded by friends any harm will
befall her. Your faithful attachment to your mistress, my girl, alone
excuses the presumption of your interference. Du Chesne, you will take
charge of Diane; Jean and Nanon will follow closely in the larger canoe;
we shall all remain in sight of one another.” Thus Le Ber decisively
settled the question; then, holding his hat under his arm, with a
profound bow he offered his hand to conduct Madame de St. Helène to the
boat.
“Now, are you satisfied?” the young man laughed gaily. “Diane, is it not
a joke? You and I surely might be allowed to take care of ourselves.”
Nanon was still disposed to be nettled; she resented Le Ber’s rebuke,
but no one could ever resist the gay confidence of the trader’s youngest
son.
Jean Le Ber du Chesne might fitly serve as an example of the best type
of the colonial youth of the period. Born and nurtured in Canada,
thoroughly versed in woodcraft, seasoned to toil, fatigue and trying
extremes of climate, trained amidst dangers and alarms, while yet in his
teens he had acquired a reputation for tact and courage. As the sea is
the sailor’s native element, his cherished career, his passion, so was
the forest that of Le Ber du Chesne. From childhood he had accompanied
his cousins, the Le Moynes, a family of heroes, upon the most difficult
and arduous expeditions. In the elastic buoyancy of early youth,
hardship and perils had but developed an uncommon vitality and afforded
opportunities for the display of resource and valor. The austerity of
the most sombre acetic relaxed at the sight of his debonair face; the
craftiest of Indian diplomats, the most lawless of coureurs de bois were
alike moulded to the purposes of the young Canadian.
“We shall keep Bibelot with us. Diane and I have no desire to furnish
_bouillon à l’Iroquois_; we should neither of us relish being thrown
into the kettle.” Du Chesne’s gay inadvertent laugh rang out as he
jested with one of the grimmest terrors of colonial life.
Three soldiers rowed the larger craft, occupied by Le Ber and St. Helène
with the wife and children of the latter. Several other boats followed,
carrying servants, soldiers, workpeople and baggage.
“Hasten, then, my son; follow us closely.” Le Ber looked around
anxiously. “It is but three years, remember, since Senneville was last
attacked by the Iroquois. What has been may happen again. It is the
policy of the savages to attack stragglers. Above all things it is
necessary to keep together.”
The oars were raised high in the air, and as they moved a shower of
crystal drops flashed in the sunlight. At the same time the voices of
the boatmen broke out into a lusty chorus which rang cheerily across the
water:
“Y’a-t il un étang.
Fringue, Fringue sur l’aviron.
Trois beaux canards
S’en vont baignants
Fringue, Fringue sur la rivière
Fringue, Fringue sur l’aviron.”
Du Chesne was holding the canoe into which Diane was about to step when
there arose an outcry from the fort.
“Monsieur! Monsieur! Sieur du Chesne!” It was Nanon, her plump figure
quivering with excitement, who called in hot haste. “It is that snake of
a Gouillon who disputes with the soldiers. Hasten, then, ere there is
murder done.”
“But an instant, Diane. That lazy varlet lives but to do mischief—just
when we are in haste, too. But he shall pay for his pleasure this time.”
Diane remained alone upon the shore, watching the rapidly disappearing
party, gaily waving a bright-hued silken scarf as long as they were in
sight. Gentle fancies, floating vaguely through her mind without ever
assuming definite form, were reflected on her face in lines of exquisite
sweetness; her delicately fanciful maiden dreams inspired no yearning
for future bliss, but only perfect satisfaction with the present. The
voyage down the river would be one continuous pleasure. She and the
young man were close comrades and firm friends. Being very young when
his mother died, the affectionate lad had grieved deeply. In his
loneliness it was his young playmate who had come nearest to his heart;
she had taken the place of the sister whom religious enthusiasm had
estranged from all human interests. Diane had become his warmest
sympathizer, the confidante of countless escapades. The girl, on her
part, was conscious that the serenity of the blue sky, the tender
greenness and stillness of the landscape, all seemed to borrow a new
charm when viewed in his company.
The Seigniory had once been called Boisbriant, after the first grantee,
Sidrac de Gui, Sieur de Briant, but when it passed into Le Ber’s
possession, it was renamed Senneville. It was a post of considerable
strategic value. The fort, built at the end of the Island of Montreal,
where the St. Lawrence and Ottawa Rivers joined, offered effectual
protection against the attacks of the Iroquois, and was of great service
to the colony.
In front the Ottawa flowed, through its picturesque and fertile islands,
while on the other side the St. Lawrence rolled like a river of gold. A
little to the north-west the water expanded into the Lake of Two
Mountains, the twin peaks which gave it their name appearing in the hazy
distance. On Ile St. Paul Le Ber had erected large storehouses. On Ile
Perrot stood a cluster of buildings constructed by Le Ber’s rival and
antagonist, Perrot, the ex-Governor of Ville Marie, in order to
intercept the Indian tribes from the upper lakes on their way to the
annual fair at Montreal. Ile Perrot was the rendezvous of soldiers who
had escaped from the restraints of a harsh discipline to the freedom of
the woods, and of rovers of every description outlawed by the royal
edict.
The fort at Senneville was remarkably well built; the material of rough
boulder stones, with stone jambs, lintel sills and fire-places. The
buildings formed a parallelogram of which the residence was one end, the
sides being simply defensive walls, nowhere more than twelve feet high,
pierced with loopholes and having a gateway. At the angles stood
flanking towers, the first two being connected with a wall which did not
come much above the first floor window. The courtyard was nearly square,
measuring about eighty feet each way, and looking north-west across the
Lake of Two Mountains.
The residential part had a frontage of about eighty feet and a depth of
thirty-five. In front it was two stories in height, but, as the ground
was higher inside the courtyard, at the back it was only a story and a
half. It had a high pitched roof, tall chimneys and wide fire-places.
The walls of the towers were strengthened by an outward spread at the
base. The towers measured only about twelve feet square inside; they
were two and a half stories in height and had large windows in their
outer walls, and on the sides, commanding the main walls, small
embrasures were mounted with light artillery.
In addition to the castle proper there were out-buildings which served
more than one purpose. A few hundred yards back from the river the
ground swelled to a gently wooded height, crowned by a fortified
windmill. These picturesque structures were a distinctive feature in the
landscape throughout all New France and did good service in protecting
the settlers. The mill at Senneville possessed rather an unusual
adjunct, a hooded door which served the same purpose as the
machicolations of a mediæval castle. The tower was three stories in
height, and measured fifteen feet inside, the floor being supported by
strong oak beams. The chimney was simply a flue in the thickness of the
wall opening to the outer air just below the second story ceiling; the
hood opened before the floor of the same chamber. The roof was of
conical form, covered with shingles, the latter always a point of
weakness in time of attack.
Nature here on every side unfolded panoramic views of loveliness.
Flickers of light were reflected in the water; trailing vines festooned
the trees. There were quiet marshes golden with swaying grasses, and,
farther away, sombre masses of pine through which opened mysterious
shadowy vistas.