THE MIDNIGHT MARCH.
The children crept forth from their corners and looked wonderingly at
their sobbing mother.
"O, you will certainly be killed," wailed the good woman, thoroughly
frightened.
"There is little danger of _that_," rejoined Lecorbeau. "The abbé prefers
to strike where there is small likelihood of a return blow. There will be
as little of peril as there will be of glory in attacking a few sleeping
villagers and perhaps murdering them in their beds. The thought of such
cold-blooded butchery is terrible, but anything is better than that you
and the little ones should be exposed to the rage of those savages.
It may mean ruin for us, however, for the English governor at Halifax
is likely to hear of me being concerned in the raid; and, you remember,
I was one of those that took the oath when I was a lad. I shall be
an outlaw, that's all!"
Reassured as to the immediate physical peril of the enterprise, the good
wife dried her eyes. The scruples that troubled her husband were too remote
to give her much concern.
"Well, if you _must_ go," said she, "I suppose you, must! Do try and
please that hard-hearted priest; and you must put on warm clothes, for
you'll be sleeping out at night, won't you?"
"But, father!" began Pierre--and then he stopped suddenly. "I wonder if
I foddered the steers," he went on. As he spoke he rose from the bench
whereon he was sitting, and went out to the barn.
Pierre had been on the point of saying that _he_ was the one to go on
the raid, as he had not taken any oath of allegiance to the English.
It had occurred to him, however, that his father would probably forbid
him thinking of such a thing, and he knew that in such a case he would be
unable to put his plan in execution, as he had not learned in that simple
neighborhood the lesson of disobedience to parents. He saw that if he went
on the raid the requirements of Le Loutre were likely to be satisfied,
while at the same time his father would be delivered from the danger of
an accusation of treason. It was quite certain in Pierre's mind that his
design would commend itself to the clear wisdom of his father, but he
felt that the latter would forbid it because of his mother's terrors.
He decided to act at once, and he turned his steps toward the fort.
Certain misgivings troubled his conscience at first, but he soon became
convinced that he was doing right.
While good wife Lecorbeau was wondering what kept Pierre so long at the
barn, Pierre was at the commandant's quarters talking to the abbé. The
latter greeted the boy kindly, and asked at once what brought him.
"I came to speak about to-morrow night, Reverend Father!" began the boy,
doubtfully.
"Well, what of it?" snarled the priest, in a harsh voice, his brow
darkening. "Your father isn't trying to beg off, is he?"
"O, no, no!" Pierre hastened to reply. "He's getting ready, and he doesn't
know I've come to see you. He'd have forbidden me had he known, so I stole
away. But _I_ want to go instead of him. See, I'm young and strong;
and I love fighting, while he loves peace; and he has pains in his joints,
and would, maybe, get laid up on the march, whereas I can be of more use
to the cause. Besides, _he_ can be of more use to the cause by staying
home, which I can't be. Take me instead--!"
Pierre broke off abruptly, breathless in his eagerness. For a moment
his hopes died within him, for the abbé's face remained dark and severe.
That active brain reviewed the situation rapidly, and at length approved
the proposal of Pierre. It was obvious that Pierre, ardent and impetuous,
would be more effective than Antoine in such a venture; and it occurred to
Le Loutre that in taking the boy he was inflicting a sharper punishment
upon the father.
"You are a right brave youth," he said, presently, "and it shall be as
you ask. You shall see that I do well by those that are faithful. As for
the traitors, let them beware, for my arm is longer than they dream.
I reach to Annapolis and Fort St. John and Louisburg as easily as to
Minas or Memramcook." Here the abbé paused and was turning away. Looking
back over his shoulder he added, but in a low voice:
"Come hither at dusk to-morrow. I will send a messenger to your father
in the morning, saying that I release him from the expedition. See that
you say nought to him, or to any living soul, of that which is to
be done!"
When Pierre returned to the cabin his mother began to question him.
He answered simply that he had to go up to the fort. "What for?" inquired
his mother persistently. But Lecorbeau interposed.
"Pierre is as tall as his father," he said, smiling at the youth. "See
how broad his shoulders are. Is he not old enough, anxious mother, to be
out alone after dark?"
The good woman, assenting, gazed at her son proudly. And Pierre felt
a pang at the thought of what his mother's grief would be on learning
that he had gone on the abbé's expedition. His heart smote him bitterly
to think he should have to leave without a word of explanation or
farewell; but he knew that if his mother should get so much as a hint
of his undertaking, her fears would ruin all. He crept to his bed, but
lay tossing for hours, wide-eyed in the dark, before sleep put an end
to the wearying conflict of his thoughts.
The following morning brought unexpected joy to the cabin at the foot
of Beauséjour. Antoine Lecorbeau could hardly believe his ears when
a messenger came to tell him that the abbé, in consideration of faithful
services already rendered, would release him from the duty required
of him. A load rolled off the Acadian's prudent soul, though he remained
in a state of anxious perplexity. Had he known our Shakespeare he would
have said, in the strict privacy of his inward meditations, "I like not
fair terms and a villain's mind." But as for his good wife, she was
radiant, and reproached herself volubly for the evil thought she had
harbored against the good abbé. Pierre himself, seeing that Le Loutre
was sticking to his promise, found a good word to say for him, for the
first time that he could remember.
That same evening, supper being over about dusk, Pierre said he would
go up to the fort and see the old sergeant. As he got to the cabin door
he turned and threw a kiss to the dear ones he was leaving. Had the
light been stronger his mother could not but have noticed his set mouth
and the moisture in his eyes. He dared not trust himself to speak.
"Bring us back what news you can of the expedition, lad!" cried Lecorbeau
after him; and it was with a mighty effort that Pierre strained his voice
to answer "All right!"
At the fort everything was very quiet. Le Loutre was at the commandant's
quarters with a half dozen befeathered and bepainted braves, in each
of whom Pierre presently recognized a fellow-Acadian skillfully disguised.
In fact, there was not an Indian among them. The real Indians were
awaiting their leader and spiritual father in the woods beyond
Fort Lawrence.
Pierre was warmly greeted by his fellow-villagers, all of whom had
evidently worked themselves up into something like enthusiasm for their
undertaking. Of the regular French soldiery there were none about. Not
even a sentry was to be seen. The commandant was on hand, helping to
complete the disguises of the Acadians, and he did not choose that
any of his men should be able to say they had seen him give personal
countenance to a violation of the treaty.
The commandant was very well disposed to the family of Antoine Lecorbeau,
from whom he bought farm produce at ridiculously low terms, to sell it
again in Louisburg at a profit of one or two hundred per cent. He spoke
good humoredly to Pierre, and even helped him with his paint and feathers.
Unscrupulous and heartless where his own interests were at stake, in small
matters he was rather amiable than otherwise.
"Won't your father and mother be terribly anxious about you, when you
fail to put in an appearance to-night? The good abbé tells me they are
not to know of your whereabouts!" said the officer to Pierre, in a low
voice.
"What, sir!" cried Pierre, aghast at the thought. "Won't they be told
where I've gone?"
"His Reverence says not," replied the officer. "His Reverence is very
considerate!"
Pierre was almost beside himself. He knew not what to do. His hands
dropped to his side, and he could only look imploringly at the commandant.
"Well, well, lad!" continued the latter, presently, "_I'll_ let them
know as soon as the expedition is safely out of this. This priest is quite
too merciless for me. I'll explain the whole thing to your father and
mother, and will assure them that there's no danger; as, indeed, is the
truth, for it is pretty safe and easy work to shoot a man when he's not
more than half awake. Now, be easy in your mind, and leave the hard
work and any little fighting there may be to those red heathens that
His Reverence talks so much about."
With these words, which relieved Pierre's mind, the commandant turned
away, and left the youth to perfect his transformation into a Micmac
brave.
It was drawing toward midnight when the abbé's imitation Micmacs, after
a hearty supper of meat, took their way from Beauséjour. They saw no
sentry as they stole forth. Le Loutre was with them, and himself led
the way. The night was raw and gusty, with rain threatening. As they
descended the hill they could hear the stream of the Missaguash brawling
over the stones of the mid-channel, for the tide was out. Across the
solitary marshes could be seen the lights of Fort Lawrence gleaming
from their hilltop. Overhead was the weird cry of flocks of wild geese
voyaging north. The gusts made Pierre draw his blanket closer about him,
and the strangeness of his surroundings, with the dreadful character
of the venture on which he was bound, filled his soul with awe. He was
determined, however, to produce a good impression on the dreaded abbé.
He stalked on with a long, energetic stride, keeping well to the front
and maintaining a stoical silence.
Le Loutre led the way far up the Missaguash, so giving Fort Lawrence
a wide berth. Once beyond the fort he turned south, skirting the further
edge of what had been peaceful Beaubassin. At this point he led his party
into the woods, and for perhaps half an hour the journey was most painful
and exhausting. Pierre was running against trees and stumbling over
branches, and at the same time, in spite of his discomfort and the
novelty of the situation, growing more and more sleepy. The journey
began to seem to him like a dismal nightmare, from which he would soon
awaken to find himself in his narrow but cosy bunk at home.
Suddenly he was startled by the half-human cry of the panther, which
sounded as if in the treetops right overhead. "Is that a signal?"
inquired one of the startled travelers, while Pierre drew closer to
his nearest comrade.
"It's a signal that Monsieur Loup Cervier wants his supper, and would
be quite willing to make it off a fat Acadian!" replied the abbé with
a grim laugh.
The party upon this began to talk and laugh aloud, which probably daunted
the animal, for nothing more was heard of him. In the course of another
ten minutes a light was seen glowing through the trees, and immediately
the abbé hooted thrice, imitating perfectly the note of the little
Acadian owl. This signal was answered from the neighborhood of the fire,
whereupon the abbé gave the strange, resonant cry of the bittern. A few
moments more and Pierre found himself by a camp fire which blazed
cheerfully in the recess of a sheltered ravine. Around the fire were
gathered some twoscore of Micmacs in their war dress, who merely grunted
as the abbé and his little party joined them.
Here, wrapped in his blanket, his feet to the fire and his head on an
armful of hemlock boughs, Pierre slept as sweet a sleep as if in his bed
at home. At dawn he woke with a start, just as the abbé drew near to
arouse him. For a moment he was bewildered; then gathering his wits
he sprang quickly to his feet, looking ready for an instant departure.
Le Loutre was content and turned away. Not many minutes were consumed
in breakfasting, and the raiders were under way by the time the sun
was up.
All that day the stealthy band crept on, avoiding the trails by which
communication was kept up between the settlements. Early in the evening
Le Loutre called a halt, and Pierre, exhausted, fell asleep the moment
he had satisfied his hunger. Next morning the sun was high ere the party
resumed its march, and not long after midday Le Loutre declared they had
gone far enough as they were now near the settlement of Kenneticook.
There was now nothing to be done but wait for night. A scout was sent
forward to reconnoiter, and came back in a couple of hours with word that
all was quiet in the little village, and no danger suspected.
About nine o'clock the abbé gave his orders. Not a soul in the village
was to be spared, and not a house left standing. The enemy were to be
destroyed, root and branch, and the English were to receive a lesson that
would drive them in terror within the shelter of the Halifax stockades.
In a few minutes the party was on the march, and moving now with the
greatest secrecy and care.
During that silent march, every minutest detail of which stamped itself
indelibly on Pierre's memory, the lad clung desperately to the thought of
all the injuries, real or pretended, which the English had inflicted upon
his people. He dared not let himself think of the unoffending settlers
trustfully sleeping in their homes. He strove to work himself up to some
sort of martial ardor that might prevent him feeling like an assassin.
Presently the rippling of the Kenneticook made itself heard on the quiet
night, and then the dim outlines of the lonely and doomed hamlet rose
into view.