GENERAL JACQUES
Father Bisset stood by the brink of the rushing stream and looked up
and down its banks. “Let us reflect,” he said. “He will sleep late,
till daylight, perhaps, and he will not at once realize that I do not
intend to return. As for Marie, I think she will say nothing, for it
would do no good, and but bring blame upon her. I think he will begin
to suspect when he receives the packet I left for him, a purse which he
handed to me for your use.”
“He dared to do that!”
“Yes; but it was kindly meant, and I was obliged to receive it, but
not to retain it. Very well, then, he discovers the purse, and after a
time he comes to himself, and will immediately set out to make inquiry
at the convent. We have not been there, then we have outwitted him and
have escaped, though perhaps he will not think I have taken you out of
the town, and he will search there first. All this will take time, and
we have a good start. I think we are safe.”
Alaine’s hand on his arm tightened. “And you think there is no danger
from him? He will not follow?”
“He may eventually, but we have some hours’ start. He must first
satisfy himself that I do not intend to return, and that you are at
none of the convents or anywhere in Quebec. The sleeping potion which I
put in the wine will not lose its effect at once, and he will be stupid
all day.”
“I cannot imagine how you were able to do this,” Alaine said,
thoughtfully. “Where did you get the potion?”
“I took care to provide myself with several necessities when I left
France, and in case of emergency I brought with me one or two weapons
quite as useful as a sword or a pistol. I know how to use certain
drugs, but I know little about wielding implements of war. My little
possessions, you may remember, were brought aboard the vessel with me;
some of them remain there, the rest I have here.”
The soft purple light of an early October morning hovered over the
lofty bluffs of Point Levi, and a delicate mist floated above plain
and river. The boatmen were beginning to gather, and their songs were
wafted upon the morning air. Silent and sleeping the town still lay,
its people unaware of the approach of a little fleet, and not dreaming
that the guns of the fort would soon bellow forth a savage greeting to
Sir William Phipps.
To the fact of their being neither Dutch nor English was now due the
safety of Alaine and her companion. A renegade priest might receive
some sufferance from the friends of Frontenac, himself none too fond of
the Jesuits, but with war upon them, the French would have shown small
mercy to one from the British colony of New York. Therefore Father
Bisset impressed it upon Alaine, “We are French; we are from Rouen; we
have come to make our fortunes. Henceforth I am your uncle Jacques, and
thus you must address me. A boy and his uncle will not be so easily
traced as a girl and the man she calls father. We will trudge along, my
nephew, and get a little beyond the town; we shall not be very long in
meeting some of those wild woodmen of whom we both have heard much; we
shall in all probability have to spend some time with them, therefore
prepare yourself for a rough life. For you, my child, it will be a hard
experience; for me, well, he must expect it who flees his country.
Fugitives from justice are many of these coureurs de bois, and a fellow
feeling will do much toward establishing a good understanding.”
Through the woods, brilliant with the autumn coloring in the keen
Canadian air, they wandered, pursuing the track of the river, and
at last they came upon a group of rough voyageurs intent upon their
noonday meal. “Does there happen to be one Antoine Crepin among you?”
asked Jacques Bisset as he approached. “I am in search of him; a
fugitive from France am I, and I seek this Antoine, whom I well knew in
my youth.”
The men eyed him and looked askance at the delicate features of this
questioner’s companion. “Antoine Crepin?” at last one spoke up. “I know
him; he has gone farther along; he winters near Trois Rivières always.”
“And do you go that way?”
“We go, yes, there or somewhere.”
“Have you room for two more in your party? I have--what have I? Not
much; a little of the silver of France for our passage.” He carefully
drew some coins from his pouch.
The men conferred together. “We will take you. Keep your money. It
is share and share alike. You and the boy there will need something
to begin life with, my friend. You have chosen a bad time for your
travels, with the country alive with disputes. Up and down the river
it is the same; they say the English may approach. For ourselves we
get out, but we may fall into the hands of the Iroquois before night.
However, that is the life; one cannot tell when one is in danger; one
may be drowned or be torn by a wild beast, or be scalped by an Indian;
one thing is as likely as another; it is all chance; if you wish to
take yours with us, very well.”
That wild journey, would Alaine ever forget it? the frail canoes
shooting through the whirling rapids and borne on and on; the night
beneath the bright stars, with the cries of prowling beasts in her
ears, and the haunting dread of an Indian war-whoop disturbing her
dreams; those days when weird songs and rude jests awoke the echoes in
silent places. She had not labored in field and garden to be other than
free of movement, and her skill in cooking won her the approval of her
rough companions. It was even harder for Jacques Bisset to hide the
fact of his former calling than it was for Alaine to disguise her sex,
and many a laugh arose at the old man’s expense. “He is schoolmaster;
he is scrivener; he is--what is he?” they cried. “And he guards the
lad as if he were taking him to a monastery. Here, Alain, boy, leave
that mother-man of yours and we’ll give you a chance to kill a deer, a
chance you’ll not have had back there in France.”
And Alaine would laugh and say, “I’d rather cook your deer than kill
him, and this uncle, he will learn one day, though he is not young.
Leave us here to keep up the fire and cook your food; we will sit and
fish, and if you come home empty-handed we maybe will have something
for you.” So they would troop off and leave them to watch the camp till
they returned with their game and were ready to launch again upon the
river, each day bearing them farther from Quebec, where the guns of the
fort were growling out their defiance of the doughty Phipps and where
François Dupont had awakened from his long sleep to one predominant
fact: the city was threatened; it was French, above all it was French,
and to arms he flew, remembering for a time only dimly that there were
such persons as Father Bisset or Alaine Hervieu, or, if he remembered,
it was to feel a grim satisfaction that they were there on his side.
It was only after Frontenac’s valiant defence, and when the bumptious
Phipps sailed away the worse off by eight vessels and many men, that
François began to think of his own affairs. “I promised the old priest
that I would wait for him. Very well, I have waited. I shall find him,
no doubt, somewhere with the monks at the college or the seminary. He
may be assisting them at Notre Dame des Victoires to decorate with
trophies after this our victory. Vive La France!” he shouted aloud at
the remembrance. “I, too, share in that victory. Good! I first find
Father Bisset, and then my vessel, if she is not blown up. We shall set
sail rather later than we intended, but it is better than a few days
too soon, for we might by this time be prisoners of that Phipps.”
To the convent he went. No priest and no Mademoiselle Hervieu had
ever been there. François looked mystified. “It was uncommonly heady,
that wine,” he remarked to himself. “I scarcely remember ever to have
been so muddled by a little bout; yet--ah, yes, he has taken alarm.
He learned that the English were coming and he removed himself and
mademoiselle to a safer place. He will return. I sit here and wait; it
is all that I can do. He learns of victory and he returns. I said I
would wait, and I wait.”
More than once Alaine had seen Father Bisset take from his pocket a
paper which he studied carefully and then seemed lost in thought, a
proceeding which brought forth jests from the rollicking voyageurs.
“An order for good living, is it, Jacques Bisset?” one would cry. “A
letter from the king himself, very likely,” put in a big fellow with an
immense voice to match his proportions. “We have here, my friends, one
carrying orders for Louis XIV.; he will lead us against the English.”
He bowed low, sweeping the ground with his fur cap. “I have discovered
you, Monsieur le General Jacques Bisset.” Every one joined in the laugh
that followed, and from that time he was dubbed General Jacques.
They had halted for their evening meal. Trois Rivières was not a day’s
journey from them. Squatting around their fire they were preparing
their meat for spitting before the cheerful blaze; the nights were
waxing cold, and they huddled blinking in close range of the acceptable
heat. Suddenly Petit Marc--so-called in sheer contrariness--slapped his
knee. “Son of a donkey! Senseless hooting owl!” he cried. “I forget
that it is near here that Antoine Crepin has his lodge. It is near an
Indian village beyond the woods there. Come, General Jacques, we can
make it before it grows too late. If it is Antoine you want, Antoine
you shall have, though how one can prefer the surly fellow to any of us
passes my comprehension. Here, boy, up with you, for from the alacrity
with which the general stirs his bones it is good-by to us and how are
you, Antoine? We shall find him, I think; these last nights have been
cold enough to drive him in. Who’ll go with us? You, Gros Edouard? You,
Richard?”
Two or three scrambled to their feet, and they set out without further
ado through the dim forest, their torches aflare and their guns ready.
“It is a little more than a mile westward,” Petit Marc told them.
“We can trot it in no time and back again. Antoine would rather have
Indians for neighbors than whites, and he is half right,” he added, in
an aside. “We’ll jog right on.” They proceeded Indian-file through the
leaf-carpeted wood, Petit Marc marching ahead, and Richard with Gros
Edouard bringing up the rear. At last they came to a creek swollen
with the autumn rains; it was a turbulent little stream, but it did
not daunt the voyageurs. “We shall have to swim it,” said Petit Marc,
calmly looking up and down the rising stream. “You, General Jacques,
can you use your fins? I’ll take the boy on my back, for I’ll swear he
can’t swim.” He looked Alaine up and down. “How is it, son?”
Alaine shook her head.
“I thought so. Here, then, take me around the neck, so, first, then
slip your hands to my shoulders, and hold hard. You needn’t be scared;
I have carried heavier bodies than yours across worse floods. Here we
go.” And he landed Alaine on the muddy bank at the other side. Shaking
himself like a huge dog, he stood up to watch the progress of the
remaining members of the party. “Keep it up, general,” he shouted,
“you’ll soon make it. Help him, boys; he hasn’t the muscle of the rest
of us.” And, indeed, the old man’s strength was nearly spent, and
after being dragged up the bank he dropped trembling to the ground.
Petit Marc pulled out a flask. “Tickle your throat with that and you’ll
be able to come on, general,” he said.
A few minutes of rest sufficed to give breath to the old man, and they
continued their way to the cabin, which stood but a short distance
farther on. With a ponderous rap Petit Marc beat on the door. “Awake,
there, Antoine,” he called. “Here is General Jacques and a section of
his army. Awake and open in the name of the king.”
In an instant the door was opened and a face peered out, showing in the
flame of the torches suspicious eyes and a grim, unsmiling mouth. “The
general here insisted upon making your house his head-quarters,” said
Petit Marc, grinning; “he has written orders from the king to press us
all into service, and you are to provision the whole army. We will have
pity on you to-night, having supped fairly well, and we’ll go back, but
you’ll have to keep him and the boy.” He gave the dripping figure of
Father Bisset none too gentle a push toward the door.
“Antoine Crepin?” said the shivering old man.
“That is my name.”
“And Jeanne?”
Antoine looked closer, gave an exclamation of surprise, and opened
wide the door. Father Bisset entered followed by Alaine. “It’s all
right, boys,” said Petit Marc; “the general is safe, and we return.
Good-night, general; we shall expect to receive our promotions in short
order.” And with a loud laugh Petit Marc and his companions turned back.
“He is very wet; he will take cold, I am afraid,” said Alaine to the
man, who was looking at her curiously. “As for me,” she continued, “on
that broad back I scarcely touched the water enough to hurt me.”
“But Jeanne?” Father Bisset interrupted.
Antoine placed his hand on the questioner’s shoulder and conducted him
across the floor to where an inner room was roughly separated from the
larger apartment. Alaine did not follow, but drew nearer the fire and
crouched on the hearth to wring the water from her damp moccasins and
to dry her sleeves. By the dim, flickering light she saw that here was
a dwelling of the rudest kind; a roughly fashioned bench, a table, a
pile of skins in one corner, a few cooking-utensils, were all that
she could discern. From the inner room had come a quick exclamation,
a surprised scream of delight, laughter and sobs mingled, and then
voluble words expressive of astonishment, commiseration, and inquiry.
Presently reappeared Antoine bearing a light, and behind him came two
figures. At first sight these were so exactly alike that Alaine stared.
Were there two Father Bissets, one many years younger than the other?
She rubbed her eyes and looked again. A red kerchief was tied around
each of these two heads; each wore a fringed deer-skin jacket, below
which was wrapped an Indian blanket. The two faces showed alike kindly
eyes, expansive lips, and the same genial smile. Then the older spoke.
“This is Jeanne Crepin, my sister Jeanne, who remembers well little
Alaine Hervieu in her babyhood.”
Alaine at once comprehended; this was the sister of her old friend,
the young sister of whom Michelle had often told her, who had married
a gay young Parisian and had followed him overseas. There was some
difficulty, some crime which affected these two, Alaine remembered, and
they had not remained to take any risks. It was said that Father Bisset
had covered the retreat, but of this no one could be positive, but it
seemed that all these years he had kept track of the fugitives. It was
all true, then, and here they were.
“Alaine Hervieu resembles her mother,” came Jeanne Crepin’s deep voice.
“She is very welcome.”
“And now you know,” said Father Bisset, “why I was not so concerned
when I learned that our destination would be Canada, for Canada I
intended to reach, whether by Hudson, by sea, or by land, it mattered
not, and I laughed in my sleeve that François Dupont should be helping
me on my way.”
Alaine smiled. She feared François no longer. “And all these years you
have been living in these woods?” she asked of Jeanne.
“In these woods; they are kinder than cities. One can learn how to
face open foes; it is those who approach us as friends that are most to
be feared.”
Antoine nodded gravely. Alaine looked at him with some curiosity.
Michelle had described him as a handsome young cavalier, gay and
full of life; this serious, reticent old man did not answer to her
description. Was he really guilty of that mysterious crime, and
so bowed under the weight of it, or was it the injustice of being
considered guilty while he was innocent that had embittered him? Alaine
wondered over it. But she was tired, and the warmth of the room and
the effect of a warm herby drink given her soon made her drowsy, so
that her head began to droop, and she threw herself down on the pile
of skins in the corner, dimly conscious that a low-voiced conversation
went on for hours. Although she felt more secure than she had for
weeks, she felt singularly lonely, and she slipped into a sleep to
dream that she struggled alone through a sea whose waves ever beat her
from the shore.
Having cast in his lot with these children of the wood, Jacques Bisset
followed as closely as possible their manner of living, sallying forth
into the crisp cold air with gun on shoulder, joining in with the
mirth of Jeanne, holding friendly one-sided conversations with such
Indians as they met, and teaching Alaine such woodcraft as he thought
might be useful to her. Antoine, himself grave and silent, had a smile
for no one but the cheerful Jeanne, yet he showed his brother-in-law
more graciousness of manner than he did any other. During the long
evenings there was time enough for talk, at least it was Father Bisset
who chiefly did the talking; Jeanne would put in her eager, saucy
questions, and Alaine, well wrapped in furs, would crouch in a warm
corner and listen, yet often letting her thoughts wander. Where were
they, her father and Pierre, and--Lendert? Yes, Lendert. Even here,
and in spite of all these changing scenes, she could not forget him.
The devotion of Jeanne and her husband touched her deeply, and Antoine
reminded her of Pierre. Poor Pierre, if he had returned he would wait
and watch for her the rest of his days. But Lendert, had he forgotten?
Yet it was of Lendert she thought the most frequently; it was Lendert
she loved. There had been moments of peril, moments of solemn night
when truth must be answered by truth; she had tried to retreat, but
truth had held her and would be answered, and she, trembling, had
confessed to Danger and to Night, “There is one I love. I cannot help
it; I have tried with all my strength, but Love is mightier than I,
and I am slave to love.” Then, as some red embers dropped with a soft
brustle from the burning logs, she would start from her revery and come
back to hear what Father Bisset was saying. Now he spoke of Holland,
then of England. He had been in both places. Were they surprised,
Jeanne and Antoine, that he was Huguenot? They had suffered; they would
understand that a matter of conscience,--well, that was it.
“A matter of conscience, yes, when one has fled because of that there
is nothing to say,” Jeanne would say. “We owe it to you, Jacques, my
brother, that we have escaped to a place where the arm of law does not
touch us. We do not criticise you, he and I; we have suffered too much
from France ever to wish to see that country again. We live a wild
life; there is not much religion in it, yet if one can believe in God
and in his justice, not man’s, he is not altogether bad. I tell my
beads; I say my prayers; I have respected the priests because you were
one. Now, I hate the France that has persecuted you and the Jesuits who
would curse you.”
Alaine heard this, then slept, awaking to hear, “The child Alaine must
be returned to her friends. I ask that of you, Antoine and Jeanne. I
am an old man, and of late I realize that I am not as strong as I used
to be. If I am removed I leave her to your sacred charge. She must be
taken to one of the English or Dutch settlements in New York. I was
God’s instrument to save her from the pit digged for her, and I have
guarded her from all the evil that I could. I may have been mistaken to
bring her in this disguise, but it seemed better so, and it was not for
long.”
“She is not much hurt,” laughed Jeanne. “Ma foi! if I could stand it
for all these years she could stand it for two or three days. They
are not so desperately wicked, those that brought you here. One may
have been something worse than any of them and still have remained
respected in France.”
“True, Jeanne, true,” growled Antoine.
“At all events,” continued Jeanne, “you need give yourself no
uneasiness; we will start forth as soon as the weather permits and see
her safe in one of the settlements, and then we return here to live and
die together. As for the girl’s dress, it is a good one, and warm at
that. I wear much the same, and if I had to travel about more than I
do, I should not cumber myself with anything more. It is quiet enough
and cold enough here to wear anything one chooses.”
Alaine lifted her head and stretched out her feet towards the blaze.
“I am very comfortable,” she said, “and I do not think I am likely to
remember or repeat all that patois of the crew which brought us here,
so give yourself no uneasiness, Uncle Jacques; I am grateful to the
very tip of my moccasins for all that you have done for me. I want to
go home, yes, but I want to take you all with me.” The wave of her hand
included even the gloomy Antoine.
Jeanne laughed. “She would take us all, you hear. Very well, let us go
and see what Michelle will do.”
“She will be very glad, I can assure you,” Alaine returned, gravely.
“I am not so sure of that,” Jeanne responded. “However, there is bitter
weather before us, and who shall say what may happen before spring?”
Who, indeed, can say what may happen anywhere while human passions are
allowed to slip from their leash? The wildest of solitary places is yet
too narrow to prevent the lifting of Cain’s hand against his brother.
And because of this, one day along the snow-covered ground toward the
lodge there came a file of men led by Petit Marc, who carried in his
arms a burden. At every step there were red stains to be seen marking
the snowy path. Behind Marc came Antoine, his arms held about the necks
of two others; he stepped feebly, as one not sure of his way. At the
door of the lodge the little company paused, and Jeanne, hearing the
shuffling feet, opened to them.
“Mother of God!” she cried, “what is this?”
Petit Marc, without a word, entered and deposited his burden in the
clumsy chair which, covered with furs, stood before the fire.
“Jacques!” cried Jeanne. “Antoine!” For a moment she was helpless,
looking from one to the other.
“I am beyond remedy,” whispered her brother; “go to Antoine.”
His friends had placed Antoine on the pile of skins in the corner; and
he lay there pressing his hand to his side.
“You are hurt, my Antoine,” said Jeanne, the moan of a woman entering
into the deep tones of her voice. She knelt beside him, touching him
with tender fingers.
Alaine, like one dazed, looked on. “How did it happen? What is it?” she
asked, turning to Petit Marc.
Antoine half raised himself. “I will tell. He called me a murderer,
he, that wretched outlaw. He recognized me, called me by name, taunted
me. I drew my pistol, but it was he who fired. Jacques rushed between.
‘Jeanne cannot spare you,’ he cried. He fell, and could I endure it? I
rushed upon him with my knife, but he was ready, I was wounded and he
has escaped.”
“Now God’s vengeance follow him!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Who was it? Who,
who, Antoine?”
“Victor Le Roux,” he whispered; “it was he. I recognized him, as he
did me, after all these years. ‘Hold there, Olivier Herault,’ he said;
‘murderer art thou, and liar as well, if thou sayest I cheat.’”
Petit Marc lifted his head. He was chafing the hands of the old man
over whom he was bending. “Olivier Herault!” he exclaimed. “And what of
him?”
“I am he,” said Antoine, faintly. He gently pushed away the hand with
which Jeanne would have arrested the words.
Father Bisset opened his eyes and smiled. “Olivier Antoine Crepin
Herault, Jeanne’s husband,” he said.
Petit Marc stood up, his giant form towering above them all. “Olivier
Herault? then an innocent man,” he said, slowly.
“And why? Why?” Jeanne turned her rugged face toward him, and Antoine
essayed to stagger to his feet.
Petit Marc looked toward the other men grouped together by the door.
“Here, my friends, this one, Antoine here, I know him to be innocent of
any crime. Among us here in the woods it matters little what a man has
been, but there are some of us who carry about with us the poison of an
unjust charge. Most of us make the best of it; we care but little; we
would rather be more free here than less free there, and we would not
go back to the old life, but we do not tell of what is behind us; the
present is enough for us to live for. Yet when one may clear a man, one
may as well do it. More than ten years ago one of my comrades, hurt by
a falling tree, died in my arms. He wished to confess his sins before
he departed, and he told me that he had fled from France because of
having murdered a man in a quarrel. ‘For this crime,’ he said, ‘one
Olivier Herault is accused. I have heard that he escaped on the eve of
his arrest, and that there was a hue-and-cry raised because of it. If
you ever find him give him my confession; write it out as I tell you.’
And I did; here it is.” He drew forth a torn, stained bit of paper. “I
sent word to France, but I have never heard whether the message reached
there. I thought some day to find out, for I, too, Marc Lenoir, know
what it is to be falsely accused. The law is not always so sure nor so
just. Your innocence is proved, Olivier Herault; no one believes in
mine.” He spoke simply, as one who long ago had accepted a fact and
made the best of it.
“Antoine! Antoine! do your hear?” cried Jeanne. “Jacques, my brother
Jacques, you, who believed in him, who let him escape and said nothing,
do you not hear? You have saved him for this great moment, my Jacques.”
There was a far-away look in the old man’s eyes; he seemed not to know
what was going on; he gasped painfully. “Little Alaine,” he murmured,
“come here, little Alaine, and say your prayers before I go. The
angelus is ringing and it will soon be your bedtime.”
Alaine with clasped hands and streaming eyes crept to his knees and
bowed there as a child before its mother. He held her warm hands in his
nerveless ones, now growing so sadly cold. “Pater Noster,” he began
faintly, and Alaine sobbingly repeated, “Pater Noster.”
“Qui es in cœlis.”
“Qui es in cœlis.”
“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the voice was growing very faint.
“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the girl gathered strength and repeated the
words distinctly, following the whispered sentences till one could no
longer hear them, and she finished the prayer alone.
Every one was kneeling. The cold light of a winter’s sun touched the
white hair of the old man with faint gold like a halo of glory. Alaine
with bowed head now sobbed unrestrainedly, not yet aware that upon the
lips of Father Bisset the Angel of Death had set his seal.