The village had no thought or care for anything except the Rebellion and
news of it; and for several days Ferrol and Christine lived their new
life unobserved by the people of the village, even by the household of
Manor Casimbault.
It almost seemed that Ferrol’s prophecy regarding himself was coming
true, for his cheek took on a heightened colour, his step a greater
elasticity, and he flung his shoulders out with a little of the old
military swagger: cheerful, forgetful of all the world, and buoyant in
what he thought to be his new-found health and permanent happiness.
Vague reports came to the village concerning the Rebellion. There were
not a dozen people in the village who espoused the British cause; and
these few were silent. For the moment the Lavilettes were popular.
Nicolas had made for them a sort of grand coup. He had for the moment
redeemed the snobbishness of two generations.
After his secret marriage, Ferrol was not seen in the village for some
days, and his presence and nationality were almost forgotten by the
people: they only thought of what was actively before their eyes. On the
fifth day after his marriage, which was Saturday, he walked down to the
village, attracted by shouting and unusual excitement. When he saw the
cause of the demonstration he had a sudden flush of anger. A flag-staff
had been erected in the centre of the village, and upon it had been run
up the French tricolour. He stood and looked at the shouting crowd
a moment, then swung round and went to the office of the Regimental
Surgeon, who met him at the door. When he came out again he carried a
little bundle under his left arm. He made straight for the crowd,
which was scattered in groups, and pushed or threaded his way to the
flag-staff. He was at least a head taller than any man there, and though
he was not so upright as he had been, the lines of his figure were still
those of a commanding personality. A sort of platform had been erected
around the flag-staff and on it a drunken little habitant was talking
treason. Without a word, Ferrol stepped upon the platform, and,
loosening the rope, dropped the tricolour half-way down the staff before
his action was quite comprehended by the crowd. Presently a hoarse shout
proclaimed the anger and consternation of the habitants.
“Leave that flag alone,” shouted a dozen voices. “Leave it where it is!”
others repeated with oaths.
He dropped it the full length of the staff, whipped it off the string,
and put his foot upon it. Then he unrolled the bundle which he had
carried under his arm. It was the British flag. He slipped it upon the
string, and was about to haul it up, when the drunken orator on the
platform caught him by the arm with fiery courage.
“Here, you leave that alone: that’s not our flag, and if you string it
up, we’ll string you up, bagosh!” he roared.
Ferrol’s heavy walking-stick was in his right hand. “Let go my
arm-quick!” he said quietly.
He was no coward, and these people were, and he knew it. The habitant
drew back.
“Get off the platform,” he said with quiet menace.
He turned quickly to the crowd, for some had sprung towards the platform
to pull him off. Raising his voice, he said:
“Stand back, and hear what I’ve got to say. You’re a hundred to one. You
can probably kill me; but before you do that I shall kill three or four
of you. I’ve had to do with rioters before. You little handful of people
here--little more than half a million--imagine that you can defeat
thirty-five millions, with an army of half a million, a hundred
battle-ships, ten thousand cannon and a million rifles. Come now, don’t
be fools. The Governor alone up there in Montreal has enough men to
drive you all into the hills of Maine in a week. You think you’ve got
the start of Colborne? Why, he has known every movement of Papineau and
your rebels for the last two months. You can bluster and riot to-day,
but look out for to-morrow. I am the only Englishman here among you.
Kill me; but watch what your end will be! For every hair of my head
there will be one less habitant in this province. You haul down the
British flag, and string up your tricolour in this British village while
there is one Britisher to say, ‘Put up that flag again!’--You fools!”
He suddenly gave the rope a pull, and the flag ran up half-way; but as
he did so a stone was thrown. It flew past his head, grazing his temple.
A sharp point lacerated the flesh, and the blood flowed down his cheek.
He ran the flag up to its full height, swiftly knotted the cord and put
his back against the pole. Grasping his stick he prepared himself for an
attack.
“Mind what I say,” he cried; “the first man that comes will get what
for!”
There was a commotion in the crowd; consternation and dismay behind
Ferrol, and excitement and anger in front of him. Three men were pushing
their way through to him. Two of them were armed. They reached the
platform and mounted it. It was the Regimental Surgeon and two British
soldiers. The Regimental Surgeon held a paper in his hand.
“I have here,” he said to the crowd, “a proclamation by Sir John
Colborne. The rebels have been defeated at three points, and half of
the men from Bonaventure who joined Papineau have been killed. The
ringleader, Nicolas Lavilette, when found, will be put on trial for his
life. Now, disperse to your homes, or every man of you will be arrested
and tried by court-martial.”
The crowd melted away like snow, and they hurried not the less because
the stone which some one had thrown at Ferrol had struck a lad in the
head, and brought him senseless and bleeding to the ground.
Ferrol picked up the tricolour and handed it to the Regimental Surgeon.
“I could have done it alone, I believe,” he said; “and, upon my soul,
I’m sorry for the poor devils. Suppose we were Englishmen in France,
eh?”