Victory and Reward
It was three weeks later. There were fully five thousand people on the
river in boats or canoes, and about our home. The great search was
over; the governor had been found.
The honour of finding him had fallen upon two Indians and myself, who,
on the tenth day of the search, had somewhat unexpectedly come upon him
sitting on a knoll eating winter-green berries and fern-bulbs.
He was somewhat reduced in flesh and strength; but as the season was
late June, and the weather had been dry and warm, he had not suffered
materially. We conveyed him to the stream, where a large and
comfortable canoe was secured; in this he had been safely brought down
the stream, then up the river to our home; and now, three days after
this, the morning of the day had arrived when the whole St. John was to
give expression to its feelings of joy and gratitude over the finding
of the governor, in a grand and loyal celebration of the event.
Before entering upon the search, Father Bourg had sent out to all parts
of the province swift runners to call the Indians to the St. John. It
so happened, that the day before that set for the celebration, many of
the tribes from the remoter sections had just arrived. From the far
Restigouche and Madawaska; from the Miramichi and the Richibucto; from
the sandy reaches and pine-studded bluffs that jutted far into the
broad Grand Lake; from Shediac, from the beautiful Kennebecassis and
the still Neripeis; from Mispec and Lepreau; from Passamaquoddy and
Bocabec, even from the Penobscot and the surrounding country far over
the American line--from every corner of the land to which the news had
run as on the wings of the wind--there came the Indians, expectant,
anxious, interested, in swarms like bees that seek a new hive, in
flocks like birds that fly north in spring.
Nor were the Indians all. The city had sent up its councillors, its
merchants, its shipowners, its fine ladies who had graced courts in
Britain or old colonial Boston, its handsome men, cold, dignified, and
English in tone and manner. The French were also there from the Jemseg
and Sainte Anne's; 'old inhabitants' of the river who had long since
successfully striven to wipe off the stain of their treasonable
correspondence with Washington and the government of Massachusetts;
several 'refugees,' now anxious to show the loyalty they had smothered
during the war for the sake of self; honest men who had foolishly been
deluded into following Jonathan Eddy to an attack on old Fort
Cumberland in '76--all these, as well as Loyalists of '83, in countless
numbers, of all classes and conditions, were there on that great day in
July.
As I stood on the high platform that had been erected in front of the
house that the governor might more conveniently address the great
throng, and looked out upon it all, my heart swelled with feelings of
pride and satisfaction. Far above and below me, slipping between the
rich meadows, I could follow the winding, glittering line of the river.
The hills, rising belt on belt beyond, were throbbing with the warmth
and life of the magnificent mid-summer day. The air was warm and sweet
with clover bloom. The sun shone brilliantly and yet not oppressively.
The fields of grain, just beginning to show full green heads; the wild
gaiety of the flower-decked pastures and gardens; the neat, white
homes; the slow moving flocks and herds on the hillsides near and far;
the black mass of people in front; the hundreds of schooners and
thousands of canoes on the river, winding and passing, bowing and
saluting like figures in a dance, all gaily and variously decorated,
made up a picture that would be difficult to surpass.
The forenoon of the day was spent in sports--in rowing, running,
wrestling, shooting, and jumping--in all of which the Indians took
prominent part. During all this part of the celebration, the governor
moved among the people as an ordinary citizen. Dressed as an English
gentleman, he moved easily and happily among the people. Now it was
the French with whom he talked, now the farmer Loyalists; now he
congratulated warmly a crew of Indians as they stepped from the winning
canoe in the race; now he was relating part of his strange adventure in
the woods to a group of interested and courtly ladies in the garden.
Everywhere, in everything, he was the fine gentleman, the master of the
art of manners, the representative of the finest traditions in both
colony and kingdom; and it was not to be wondered at that the hearts of
many Loyalists swelled larger that day, as they thought of the
transplanting to the St. John, of a finer culture, directly from the
homeland.
But the proceedings of the morning were to be quite overshadowed by the
events of the afternoon. A vessel from St. John had brought up the
governor's magnificent uniform. He was arrayed in this--no longer the
citizen, but now the representative of the King--when in the afternoon,
surrounded by his entire council and many distinguished Loyalists, he
appeared upon the raised platform from which he was to speak. By the
governor's special request, my mother and sisters, Father Bourg, Pierre
Tomah (the Indian chief), I and the two Indians who had accompanied me
at the fortunate ending of our great search in the forest, were taken
to the platform. Then when the mighty cheer with which he was received
had died in the throats of the mass of people that filled the field
from the house to the river, the governor spoke.
'Subjects of the King,' he began, 'my friends and fellow-citizens, it
is with feelings of just pride and thankfulness that I stand before you
to-day. In the name of your King, whose representative I am, I bring
you greeting.' A wave of applause swept the crowd. The people pressed
closer; canoes on the river hurried shoreward.
The speaker went on--
'For many of you, around the name of King, there cluster, I am sure,
associations that cannot but bring memories of your past--a past as
noble as it is unparalleled in the history of the world.
'My friends and fellow-citizens, I am not unacquainted with what you
have done and suffered; of your zeal and unflinching courage, of your
devotion to your flag, your country, and your King; of your loyalty and
sacrifices; of your honour and perseverance; of what you have done
south of the line, nay, of what you have done here;--of these things I
might say much, but I feel it is quite unnecessary that I should speak
of them. Further, it is a task to which I am unequal. Again, your
deeds are their own vindication; your acts are their own eulogy. You
left a country rich and beautiful for one that seemed poor and
forbidding. No sword was lifted up to drive you hence; driven only by
the fire of your loyalty you came; this is your defence. What more is
necessary?'
Passing then from the Loyalists, he commended the French for their
refusal to assist the rebels; thanked the Indians for the fulfilment of
all their treaty obligations; and declared forgiveness to all who, on
the river, had been misguided into rebellion. Then, in a few words, he
closed.
'And now, my friends and fellow-citizens, as I look abroad upon this
magnificent river before me; as I behold these fields and flocks; as I
look into your faces and read there your past, I read a future also.
You are happy now; it is the King's good pleasure that you shall be
happier still. In that distressed land to the south of us, though
cannon no longer boom, and though the sword is sheathed, a great war
still wages--the war of faction and political turmoil that must always
exist where men are unscrupulous and where measures are unjust. Here
peace shall flourish. If you will permit me a glimpse into the future
years, I see rising a nation, new, pure-blooded, loyal, strong, the
happiest land on earth.'
A wave of applause surged over the crowd and swept off to the canoes on
the river.
'I wouldn't go back'--it was the loud, shrill voice of David Elton from
the crowd that came up above the babel--'I wouldn't go back if they
made me president. Look at my farm an' herd o' cattle, an'----' But
the rest was lost in the ringing proposal, 'Three cheers for the
governor!' It came from a score of throats at once. The cheer, like
the applause, ran far out on the river over the swaying canoes.
But the governor had not done yet.
'Here in this magnificent valley'--he swung his hand all about--'here
men, by the will of God and the King, shall for ever be free, free to
worship as they will, free to govern as they choose, free in all
things. See to it, my friends, that you prove not only worthy of your
great past but worthy also of your great future.'
He turned and sat down.
Then, as when a volcano opens and pours out its lava and is relieved,
the mighty throng burst into 'God Save the King.' Everybody sang. And
this also helped in the laying of the foundations of a new province, of
a new nation.
The next day, after the governor had departed for St. John, I was
talking with Duncan Hale, who had remained. 'What a fine thing it was
that the governor got lost?' Duncan said.
'Yes,' I said, 'it drew out the people's sympathy, binding them
together, and showing them the governor in a new light.'
'But it did more than that.' Duncan was smiling. 'Didn't you know that
last night the governor met a number of the leading people of the
river, and that, after explaining to them that you had really saved his
life by finding him in the woods, the people unanimously agreed to
nominate and elect you their representative in the new Assembly of the
province? Didn't you know that?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't believe it.'
'They did it though. You'll find out when the time comes in the fall.
And that was not the only matter arranged last night.' I saw a look of
mischievous interest grow on the old schoolmaster's face.
'What more, Duncan?' I said. 'Go on.'
'Did you see that tall, fine-looking young Englishman--the governor's
secretary--who took the long walk through the meadows and by the river
with Caroline in the evening?'
'Well?' I said.
'Well, you heard the governor make a prediction about this country; I
am going to make a prediction about that young man and Caroline.
They'll be married!' He came near and laid his hand on my arm. 'Do
you know,' he said, 'that there is only a single life,--a man of
seventy-four,--between that young man and a dukedom?'
I laughed heartily. Soon I was calling at the top of my voice,
'Caroline! Caroline!'
* * * * *
In the late fall of the same year I was sitting one evening, with my
mother and sisters, around an open fire. The elections were over--the
report from the farthest parish had come in.
A great happiness sat on my mother's face. 'To think,' she said, 'that
you were really elected, Roger, and at the head of the poll too.' I
did not answer. Something about the room and the way we were seated
had suggested to me another occasion, another evening, when, the day
after the fight at Lexington, over eight years ago, in deep sorrow, we
had gathered in the library of our former home at Cambridge, to make
plans for the future. But I recalled my thoughts.
'Yes, mother,' I said, 'there is no doubt of it. I have been elected.
Things have not turned out so badly for us after all. Indeed, I do not
know a single one of our acquaintances who is not happier than before
the war. Doctor Canfield's new church is quite magnificent, Duncan
Hale's school is fast becoming a college; as for the farmers about,
well--I don't think there is much danger of any of them wanting to go
back to be buried "without benefit of clergy." What is it David Elton
says? Oh, yes--"I wouldn't go back if they'd make me president." Poor
David, the way he did storm and rage the day they put him in the mine
with me. True, they were hard days those for both of us.'
'But the mine led to the parliament,' my mother said, smiling.
'Yes,' I said, 'there is no doubt but the war was a blessing to us. We
were the real victors in the conflict. We are happier than we ever
could have been without it.' As I said this, I looked very hard at
Caroline. 'Aren't we, Carrie?' I said. The crimson mounted to her
cheeks, and I was preparing to defend myself, when she was forced to
join the rest of us in a merry laugh.
'Everything had its part to play--the war--the mine--and last of all
even the Loup-garou,' I said, and we all laughed again.
'And just to think, mother,' Elizabeth put in a little later, 'a member
of parliament in the family already, and'--her face was beaming with
mischief and delight--'and a possible duchess also!'
THE END.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.