_PREPARING FOR THE EXPEDITION._
PIERRE LE BER had lately been occupied in painting upon a piece of
fair white linen a picture of the Virgin, and this he had embellished
with all the beauties which an ardent imagination could suggest.
“_Ciel!_” cried Nanon, regarding the painting attentively, “It is a
beautiful picture, and in truth it resembles our demoiselle.”
This speech greatly scandalized Anne Barroy.
“It is not sufficient that this proud turkey would claim for her
mistress highest rank on earth; she would fain push her to the front
among the heavenly host as well,” she whispered to one of her familiars.
Jeanne Le Ber, who excelled in embroidery, had made a very beautiful
banner for the picture, and it was decided that this emblem of the
protectress of the settlement should be presented to the war-party as a
safeguard. Recognizing the fact that the panic-stricken settlers
required every available encouragement that could be derived from both
faith and patriotism, the ecclesiastical authorities organized a
procession, as imposing as the resources of the colony would allow, to
carry the flag to the Parish Church of Notre Dame, where it was to be
consecrated by Dollier de Casson.
The church was a spacious building. Above the great altar, blazing with
lights, rose an immense wooden image of our Saviour suspended on the
cross. Behind it the dim glories of the choir deepened into golden
gloom. From the lofty rood screen dark shadows, thrown by the lights of
distant altars, brooded over the space beyond. At the head of the
church, near the chancel, was placed a _prie-dieu_ for the Governor of
Ville Marie, who was surrounded by a brilliant group of officers.
Soldiers thronged the side aisles, and all the intervening space was
occupied by the confused movement of the throng of spectators. The eager
faces of all turned toward the high altar, with the banner displayed
before it, as though therein lay their only hope. Wistful women,
scarcely able to restrain their streaming tears, or wrapt in the heroism
of some higher purpose, gazed, hushed and awed, upon the little band of
heroes who for faith and country were willing to face danger and risk
life itself. Tears came to haggard eyes looking upon the flag.
Patriotism was an inspiring principle, faith a fervent flame, to those
who had already made great sacrifices for religion and country; there
was even a thrill of sweetness in the thought of dying for it. A fine
and simple courage sustained many a sinking spirit, and in the contagion
of popular enthusiasm there was but slight betrayal of individual
weakness. Many were moved to an almost passionate exhilaration by the
martial music, while others were overcome by the pathos of the brave
show, with its implied possibilities of horror, agony and death.
The service proceeded with intoning of litanies and chanting of psalms.
From a grated gallery, beyond the obscurity of the screen and crucifix,
floated the delicate harmony of sweet voices in wave after wave of soft
melody, like the measured refrain of an angelic choir, echoes of an
eternal voice speaking to the human soul. The choir intoned the
_libera_, and when the concluding words of the last verse died away in
the arched roof, a woman’s voice, clear, pure and penetratingly sweet,
arose in the miseremine:
“_Miseremine mei, miseremine mei saltem vos amici mei. De profundis
clamavi ad te, Domine, Domine exaudi vocem meam._”
In the deepness of her human anguish, from the longing for strength to
sustain a wounded spirit and fainting flesh, Diane de Monesthrol
repeated:
“Out of the depths I cry unto Thee, oh, my God!”
She had come to realize that for herself nothing remained but an
absolute, solitary and sorrowful renunciation; but this was no time for
indulgence in sinking of heart or depression of soul. Some spirit
stronger than herself took hold of her, giving her the look of an
embodied passion, beautiful but terrible. Her figure and her whole
attitude were instinct with resolution; every word and movement was
vitalized by an inspiration. Her face was full of vehement life—eyes
kindling, cheeks flushed, lips trembling, nostrils quivering. Led by
some subtle intuition, timid souls crept near her for comfort and
support. If an impatient expression broke from her unawares, she quickly
controlled herself, and followed it with words of hope and consolation.
Suffering was so new to her that any sort of exertion seemed preferable
to passive endurance.
“Don’t leave me, Diane; you inspire me with courage. Oh! it is fine to
be brave and strong as you; but then you are not risking your heart’s
dearest; and you, who laugh at men’s follies, and despise their
sentiment, you have never known what it is to give your heart to one
alone. Hold me fast, then, Diane; let me feel you close when the time
comes to look my last on Armand’s face—perhaps for ever. Oh! I dare not
allow myself to think of that possibility. I am a soldier’s wife; do not
let me forget it. I promised him to be brave, though my heart should
break with the effort; he must not see me fail,” whispered little Madame
de St. Rochs, all her childish features quivering in the effort to
restrain her grief.
“My Cecile, your gallant soldier may be proud of your courage. You will
do your best to strengthen his heart.”
An old woman, with two weeping children clutching frantically at the
skirts of her gown, paused in mumbling her rosary as Diane passed, and
held up her withered hands imploringly.
“Oh, Mademoiselle! it is Pierrot, my youngest, the father of these
helpless little ones, who goes with the expedition. Their mother died at
Easter. If anything happens to him they have but me to look to; and in
these expeditions each man has his share, big or little, according to
the size of the cake—”
“It is to fight for his country, my poor Mère Bernichou.”
“His country—but yes, they all say their skin belongs to themselves,
and they must dispose of it to their taste; but when the men are killed
what is to become of the old people and the babies, I ask you that?
Three of Pierrot’s brothers went the same way, but not one ever
returned. He is as strong as a lion, and he worked for us so well. Oh,
my good and noble demoiselle! you are of those who are listened to by
the Blessed Virgin and the holy saints; pray for us, I implore you.”
Lydia, the tears running down her pretty, piteous face, with so sad a
curve of lips that seemed made for smiles, so wistful a glance in the
swimming blue eyes, made no effort to control her sorrowful
consternation. Trembling and shivering she clung to her friend’s arm,
and Diane was able to soothe her as a generous woman in her tribulation
may seek to console a creature more dependent than herself. She could
even keep in mind the fact that, though weak and frivolous, Lydia had
proved herself neither base nor deliberately treacherous; and she tried
loyally to remember that in every kindness she offered the English girl
she was lightening du Chesne’s burden.
As the crowd surged out from the church and flocked down to the beach,
the scene was a bright and varied one. The St. Lawrence stretched out
like a great mirror under the blaze of sunshine, reflecting every
floating cloud above. St. Helen’s, with banks of velvet softness, arose
out of this liquid light; the Mountain was varied with a hundred
restless rays playing upon secluded slopes and woody hollows. The summer
sun gleamed brightly upon bayonets and naked swords, and shone on the
rich costumes of the gallant French officers, whose nodding plumes
shaded hats adorned with gold, and whose lace ruffles, sashes and
sword-knots made a brave show. Some of the regulars wore light armor,
while the Canadians were in plain attire of coarse cloth and buckskin,
their provisions strapped on their backs. Much rivalry existed between
the latter and the French. The Canadians had adopted the Indian mode of
fighting, while the Frenchmen, accustomed only to civilized warfare,
found it difficult to adapt themselves to the methods of the savages.
Among the soldiers walked, with a solemn dignity befitting the occasion,
the dog which was inscribed on the regimental list as M. de Niagara, and
to whom regular rations were granted. The progeny of a dog named Vingt
Sols, who had done good service at the fort of Niagara, where he was
held in high esteem, this animal had been brought from that place by M.
de Bergères and taken to Chambly, where his master served as commandant.
As the roads leading to this post were often blocked by Iroquois war
parties, it was found extremely difficult to send or receive news from
Montreal. At this critical juncture M. de Niagara solved the problem of
how despatches might be conveyed. It was noticed by the garrison at
Chambly that the dog found his way of his own accord to La Prairie de la
Madeleine. Fearing that some of the French with whom he had started had
been captured by their enemies, a letter was written and fastened to the
animal’s collar, and he was driven out of the fort. He at once took the
road whence he had come. Reaching Chambly, the despatch was read, and,
with an answer tied to his collar, the dog was sent off again. Thus
communication was established between the two posts, and many a life
saved. M. de Niagara always took part in reviews, was profoundly
conscious of his own importance, and was regarded by the soldiers with
the greatest affection as a true and staunch comrade.
A corporal drummer, escorted by two armed soldiers, marched through the
streets beating a rhythmic movement, which, joined with the shrill notes
of a fife, thrilled the nerves, while the air resounded with the deep
clamor of bells mingling with the fantastic cries of the Indians and
bushrangers. The condition of things was so precarious that a courage
born of desperation inspired the colonists. “In order to breathe,” they
assured one another, “one must hope.” It was hard to realize grim
possibilities of death and disaster amidst sunshine and music and
movement. After all, if the worst were to come, it was better to enjoy
the present moment. The spirit of adventure had already made itself felt
in the French blood, a rapid current wonderfully susceptible to elation.
A wild gaiety began to exhibit itself. Not to be subdued by an
emergency, certain lively youths could be heard shouting hilariously to
one another.
“I lost my tobacco pouch,” cried Bras de Fer, to whom the prospect of
action had restored a comfortable spirit of self-assertion; “one quite
new, too, made out of the skin of a little seal that I killed on the
Island of M. de St. Helène last year. Ah! if one of those English
wizards falls into my claws, and I don’t succeed in making a better
pouch out of his skin, may I be scalped before All Saints. The fox
counts on eating the goose, but there are occasions when things turn the
other way; then it is the goose who gets a chance at the fox. Our hearts
are in this affair, and that is something.”
“It is impossible to content all the world and his father,” grumbled an
old soldier, “or to take time to enquire what his servants, his ass or
his ox may think about. For my part, I enjoy these little skirmishes;
they give a spice of variety to life. I don’t want to spend my days
telling stories in the chimney corner.”
“My little brother Jaquot, a true imp of the devil, who is only thirteen
and can manage the arquebus like a man, says, ‘It’s the season for
plums, and truly we will make them eat the stones.’ No fear but we shall
turn out all right. Our captain is brave as the King’s sword; no one
need fear to follow his lead. After all, I like better to kill the devil
than to permit him to kill me. But pardon, my commandant,”—Baptiste
took the freedom of an old and trusted servant—“Pardon, but it is an
evil day to start on an expedition.”
“And why, pray, Master Bras de Fer? What are you croaking about there,
old bird of ill-omen?” All shade of melancholy had passed from du
Chesne’s spirit as soon as practical affairs required his attention. His
face was now all alight with martial excitement. Amidst the cheerful
sounds of human bustle and movement his spirits rose to any height of
adventure.
“Is not to-day Friday? Don’t laugh, my commandant; we don’t learn these
things from books, they are what we see and know; every chance counts.
The day of ill-omen, I would it were another day we were starting.”
“Bah! old wives’ tales,” du Chesne laughed merrily. “You will never give
a thought to that when once the fight begins. Let me hear no more such
nonsense.”
Bras de Fer shook his head in solemn disapprobation.
“A closed mouth never swallows flies. I might have spared my breath. To
think that I carried him in my arms and taught him to shoot! The Lord
send me plenty such commandants, there are not many like him; but
Friday—I like it not.”
“You have a rage for searching noon at fourteen o’clock, my poor Bras de
Fer,” remonstrated the old soldier. “_Saccagé—Chien!_ I have heard that
spoken of—the ill-luck of starting on Friday—but once let us come in
sight of those English and we shall think of neither A nor B.”