A LOYAL LASS
_A Story of the Niagara Campaign of 1814_
By AMY E. BLANCHARD
ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK T. MERRILL
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON AND CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1902_,
By W. A. Wilde Company.
_All rights reserved._
A Loyal Lass.
* * * * *
To
DOROTHEA HARRISON ALLEN
IN MEMORY OF OUR HAPPY DAYS
AT NIAGARA
This Volume is Lovingly Dedicated
A. E. B.
Contents
I. War Clouds
II. Across the River
III. A House Divided
IV. New Friends
V. A Surprise for Royal
VI. Scheming
VII. An Exchange of Prisoners
VIII. Friend or Enemy
IX. A Little Fun
X. The Husking and What Followed
XI. A Turning of the Tables
XII. Trouble for Sue
XIII. Runaways
XIV. Kate and Royal
XV. Home No More
XVI. Jerusha to the Rescue
XVII. Asa Again
XVIII. Sorrowful Hearts
XIX. Marianne Celebrates
XX. Peace
Illustrations
"'It's odd,' she said, 'and I like it.'"
"She took one of his big strong hands in hers and stroked it gently."
"'This ... is the young lady of whom you were telling me.'"
"Each with her attendant cavalier, rode up the morning after the
capture."
"She had discovered a comfortably hollowed seat."
A LOYAL LASS
CHAPTER I
_War Clouds_
It was getting dark in the woods which ran along above the deep gorge
through which whirled and rushed the waters of the Niagara River,
and Marianne Reyburn unconsciously hurried her steps; for, though a
frontier lass and fearless to a degree, she was alive to the dangers
which lay hidden in the forest, and at this particular time she felt
a new apprehension, for there were mutterings of a war with England,
and that meant--what, she hardly knew. It might include other dangers
beside the Indian horrors of which her grandmother was always ready
to tell her. Those tales of the early settlements, of the days of
Frontenac, of the Seven Years' War, and of the "Hungry Year," were what
had fed her childhood's fancy, and even now she listened to them with
wide-open eyes and parted lips. Canadian was this grandmother, and
it was Marianne's father who had come up out of the south with his
parents. Marianne liked to hear him tell how they left their Kentucky
home in an emigrant wagon to settle in Ohio, and how a few years later
her father, a young man of adventurous turn, had followed along the
great lakes till he found him a wife on the borders of Ontario, and had
finally made him a home near the little village of Lewiston.
Fair of skin, blue-eyed, light-haired, Marianne was like her father,
though he was long-limbed and muscular; from her French mother she had
taken her petite figure and her quick, animated movements. She was half
French, but as she ran along through the woods her heart beat more
loyally for her father's country than for that land of her grandmother,
on the other side of the river. Her moccasined feet made little noise
as she followed the pathway before her. The sun was low in the west,
and was setting blood-red, so that it flecked with a ruddy light the
trunks of the trees. "It is getting late; I must hurry," murmured the
girl. Suddenly she paused and her hand sought her belt. She stood very
still and listened, then with stealthy tread she moved forward and with
a catlike spring swung herself up amid the branches of a large tree
near by. Stretching her slim body along a heavy limb, she lay quite
motionless, hidden by the leaves, her ears alert for the slightest
sound.
Presently down the pathway came two men talking earnestly. Marianne
was very quiet after the first start of surprise and the whispered
word "Victor!" which accompanied it. One of the men wore the rough
dress of a habitant; the other, in homespun, bore a pack on his back,
and Marianne decided him to be a Yankee pedler. He was talking with
the garrulity of one accustomed to an audience. As the two approached
nearer, Marianne caught the words: "I sez, sez I: That's neither here
nor there. If we hev a war, it's every man's dooty to fight for his
country whether he's sartin she'd ought to hev fit or no. Fur my part,
I say she hadn't oughter fight, but then I dunno as I'm capable of
jedgin'--mebbe she'd ought. At any rate, ef she sez: Son, I want you
should fight, I'll fight. I guess mebbe I kin. I'm kinder curious about
it; but there! I'm the curiousest fellow you ever did see,--always
pryin' into what's no consarn of mine."
The young Canadian eyed him, a little puzzled, then seeing some reply
was expected of him, he said, "For me, no, I fight not."
"You don't say? Wal, I dunno as you want to, but then I dunno as you
won't hev to, come to thet. Ef the weepons of war are handy and your
hairth and home are invaded, I dunno, bein' a man, as you won't up and
fire a shot at somebody. Seems to me 'most any man would. But there! I
dunno, mebbe you'd stand and take it all." "I? Not I!" cried Victor.
"I defend, yes, I defend, but I do not thrust myself, as it were, into
the front of the fighting."
"Mebbe you'll hev to. Seems to me you're going to git the thick of it
up here, if all I hear's correct. I'm sellin' out my pewter mugs and
plates with jest that idee. Sez I, They'll come in handy, come time
you want bullets; and it's an indoocement to buy. I've got a few left
right here; you wouldn't care to take the hull lot cheap, would you?
I'm willin' to let 'em go rather than lug 'em cross country." And the
man from Connecticut swung his load from his shoulders preparatory to
opening it.
The young Canadian laughed. "I do not buy, not I. Not of the pewter
mug, but if you have--"
"A ribbon, or a few yards of calico?" returned the other, briskly.
"Wal, I hev, though you don't look like one that needs either one to
commend you," he added slyly. "But gals is gals, and it don't do no
harm to propitiate 'em."
Before the open pack the two squatted, while Marianne, filled with
inward mirth, watched them. First a roll of bright calico was
displayed, next a gay kerchief, then a string of beads, some yards
of coarse lace, and a bolt of ribbon. "Now, there you are," said the
pedler; "that's as good a stock as you'd find to Buffalo or anywhere
else about. Goods is goin' to be fearful high on account of the war,
and I dunno as I sh'll ever be able to sell so cheap ag'in,--allowin'
that I do come 'round ag'in, which ain't likely." He waited to see the
effect of his words while Victor eyed the array doubtfully. "Dunno
which she'd like?" continued the pedler. "I'll bet she'd like that
ribbon. She'll take to that, I'll be bound."
"Oh, but I don't." There was a rustle in the leaves overhead, a quick
movement of something sliding down the trunk of the tree, and Marianne
stood before the astonished pair, who started to their feet at sight of
her. "I don't care for that," the girl went on. "I would much rather
have the neckerchief. You meant me, didn't you, Victor? You wouldn't
buy anything for any other girl, except Victorine or me, would you?"
She clasped her hands around his arm and looked confidingly up into his
face.
"Wal, I vum!" said the pedler. "Where did you drop from?"
"That tree," replied Marianne, with a toss of her head toward
the spreading branches. She laughed as she saw that the look of
astonishment had not left the face of the younger man. "I surprised
you, didn't I, Victor? Did you think me a wildcat when I sprang into
your midst?"
He looked down at her admiringly. "No, not that, Marianne. You could be
but a kitten at best." "And you meant to buy a ribbon for the kitten's
collar? Well, I am not sure that I want it. Show me what you have
there," she said imperiously to the pedler.
The man winked at Victor and held up the neckerchief.
"Is that the very prettiest thing you have in your pack?" the girl
asked. "I want something else; something that nobody else has;
something rare and unusual. I am tired of seeing myself wearing what
every girl in Lewiston can have. I know you have sold dozens like this.
Confess, haven't you?" She smiled archly at the man, who grinned in
response, nothing abashed.
"You're a peart little crittur," he said admiringly, "and I dunno as I
haven't sold quite a few of them. But now, see here, I've got something
that I ain't ever shown to a woman soul, not sence I got it, and that
wa'n't but jest yis'day; got it from an Injun squaw. Bless you, she had
her heart sot on a few yards of bright calico, and I ain't one to deny
my goods to women folks s'long as they've anything to swop. Now, I call
this pretty and sightly." He drew from his pocket a quaint bracelet of
curiously carved stones linked together ingeniously. "I don't guess
either of you ever saw a thing just like that. I dunno's them stuns
is perticklerly precious, but it's a sightly piece of work, and some
folks east might give me a pretty penny fur it. But there! I dunno's I
ain't willing to part with it right here."
Victor shot a quick look at Marianne, who was examining the bracelet
with much interest. "It's odd," she said, "and I like it. I want it,
Victor." She slipped it over her wrist and held out her slender young
arm, her head to one side, and a critical expression upon her face.
"Yes, I like it," she repeated. "It isn't a bit bright, or shiny, or
anything like that; in fact, it's rather dull-looking, and it's made
of only common little stones, but it's nothing like other people wear.
I like things that way. I don't want what any one can have. I like the
first strawberries because they are scarce, and I like the last wild
flowers because no one can get any more. I don't suppose any one could
get another bracelet just like this."
[Illustration: "_'It's odd,' she said, 'and I like it.'_"]
Victor nodded to the pedler. "What will you take for it?"
"Wal," returned the man, considering, "seein's you give me my supper
and come this fur out of your way to show me the path, I won't be hard
on you. I guess about five shillin's won't be overcharging. Calico's
going to be skeerce, and I guess I could hev done better to hold on to
what I hed, but there! I couldn't disa'pint that old Injun woman. I
al'ays am weak consarnin' weemen,--hed a mother myself,--and, though I
ain't overfond of the redskins as a rule, I hed to humor that old soul
and let her have that piece of calico."
"How big a piece was it?" Marianne asked sharply.
"Wal, I dunno as I kin tell you how much just to an inch, but 'twas a
sizable piece," he replied evasively.
Marianne looked doubtful. "Who was the woman? Where does she live?"
"Oh, suz! I can't tell ye jest who she is. Them old squaws all look
alike. But I'm telling ye the gospel truth, as sure as my name is Asa
Peaslee. I'll tell ye what I'll do: call it five shillin's, and I'll
throw in the ribbon; it's a yard good measure and true Scotch plaid."
Victor's hand sought his pocket, for Marianne made no comment, and in
a moment he had transferred the amount to the pedler, and Marianne had
her bracelet.
"Wal," said Asa, cheerfully, "I'll go on my way rejoicin'. I guess I'll
reach the old fort by night, and I'll hunt ye up if I come along this
way ag'in. I may be shoulderin' an unwieldy musket, but all the same
I'd like to see how that bracelet's wearin'. Moreover, wherever my
eyes gits a chance to be sot on a purty gal, I 'low 'em the chance."
He slung his pack over his shoulder and trudged up the path, leaving
Marianne and Victor standing together.
"And now I will kiss you for my present, Victor," said Marianne, and,
suiting the action to the word, she lightly touched her lips to each
of his cheeks, standing on tiptoe to do so, although Victor himself
was below medium height. "Now come," she said, "we must hurry, for it
is growing late. Tell me, is it true that we shall have war? I don't
understand much about it, but my father will fight for the States, of
course; and you, Victor?"
"I shall not fight; for I do not love England, and I am French, I am
Canadian. I am loyal enough to my government, but I have no quarrel
anywhere."
"I am glad of that. I wonder what grandmother will say, and--I hope it
will not be, for it is all very silly. You will not go back to-night,
Victor?"
"No, I thought I could perhaps row you over in the morning. Your
grandmother wished it so."
"Then I will go. I wish to show her and Victorine the bracelet. The
ribbon--I do not know just what I shall do about the ribbon. You were
very good to get these things for me. Did I scare you when I dropped
down so suddenly? I had hidden myself there when I heard you coming,
for this talk of war made me feel less secure, and I did not know who
might be prowling around the woods. I was so glad it was you."
"Marianne!"
"Yes."
"Nothing; yet if I were to go to the war, you would be sorry?"
"Of course. What a foolish question! I shall be sorry if my father
goes. He declares he will, and mamma shuts her ears--so, and shakes
her head when he speaks of it. Yet, I shall side with him. I always
do, poor mamma says; but I tell her that she sides always with my
brother, and so why should I not? I am a Reyburn, though my mother is a
Desvouges. I am like my father, am I not, Victor? Say I am."
"You have his blue eyes and brown hair and are like him in feature, but
you are little, like your mother, and have many of her ways of moving
your hands and head."
"I wish I were tall, like my father. Why did Royal have all the height
of the family? He could easily spare me an inch or two and not miss it,
and he is not like my father in anything else. Still, I should be glad
of my blue eyes."
"And you do not like dark eyes, Marianne?"
"Not for myself. I don't mind them in other people," she replied
cheerfully.
"I am glad of that, else I should stand a poor chance of being admired."
Marianne laughed. "As if you wanted me to admire you, stupid old
Victor. Why this is, I cannot tell, but when one has been used to
seeing a person all her life, she cannot tell how he looks. Now, you
see, I cannot remember the time when I did not know you, and if, let
me see--if Rose Maury should come and say to me: Do you think Victor
handsome? I should say, How can I tell? I know he is a dear, good
fellow, as a son to my grandmother, as a brother to my mother, as an
uncle--not uncle either--as a--an elder brother to me; and as for his
looks, I never think of them." She looked mischievously at him, nodding
her head. "But I know what Rose would say."
Victor did not reply, but switched the leaves away from beneath their
feet.
"You feel so, too, no doubt," Marianne went on. "If Rose or--or Leon or
some of the boys were to ask you if you thought me pretty, you could
not tell?" She looked at him inquiringly.
Victor laughed. "Fishing for a compliment, Marianne? I will not tell
you."
"Oh, you will not hurt my feelings, I assure you."
"No, I suppose not."
"But you do feel just that way?"
"Not just that way. I think I could express an opinion."
"Oh, and--you will not tell me?"
"Marianne,"--he turned and stood in front of her, taking her two hands
in his, and swinging them together lightly,--"you know as well as you
can know anything that I have told you a hundred times that I think
you are adorably pretty. You know it."
"I do not. I didn't know but that you'd changed your mind; you haven't
told me so for a long, long time, and one changes. My grandmother told
me only last week that I had changed, and that a girl at sixteen is
often quite different from a woman grown. Sometimes, she said, a really
pretty girl grows up to be a hideous old woman, so--"
"You are so nearly an old woman that you thought you might be in danger
of becoming hideous?" Victor asked mockingly.
"No; but how do I know that I do not change?"
"You do not look quite as you did when you were a little girl."
"I am more--"
"Yes, more--"
"What you said just now? What was it?"
"No, Marianne, I will not repeat it. Once a day is enough. Your
grandmother long ago bade me not to feed you on sweets. See, we are out
of the woods now, and the lights begin to twinkle from the houses. We
are quite late."
"And I am very hungry; are not you?"
"Very."
"I forgot to ask. Did you come out to find me?"
"Not altogether. I came to show the pedler the way to the fort. He
will sleep there to-night, and go on to Buffalo to-morrow."
By this time they had emerged from the woods, and the roaring of the
cataract came less distinctly to their ears, though the river rushed
toward the lake with tremendous swiftness as it broadened out after
its maddening whirl. Where the cliffs ended, the village of Lewiston
appeared on the American side, while opposite, the heights of Queenston
frowned. Marianne stood still for a moment, looking from the steep
cliff to the roofs below her. Here were grouped the warehouses which
held the goods brought by the lake boats, and stored there awaiting
shipment, east or west. Here, too, were comfortable dwellings of the
villagers, becoming more and more scattered as the town stretched off
into the fertile country.
"About this war, Victor," said the girl, after a long pause, "will it
come here?"
"It is reported so, yet who knows? One cannot tell. Think of it no
more, Marianne, but enjoy the present. It will be a fine day to-morrow,
I think, and we shall enjoy our trip across the river."
"Perhaps. Who can tell that, either? One may have a headache or be
triste. It is not well to count on the future," she added demurely.
Victor laughed. "Since when did Marianne Reyburn consider the future?"
"Since a moment ago," she returned, laughing in her turn, and beginning
to descend the steep path toward the village, a little beyond which
stood her father's farmstead. A light twinkled from one of the windows
before they had reached the house, and Marianne gave a sigh of
satisfaction. "That means that supper is ready, but," she added, "it
also means that I shall get a scolding for being so late. To be sure,
they do not need help in matters of cookery, yet my mother will say I
neglect my duties. Help me out, Victor, with some startling tale of
adventure to spare me much blame."
As they stepped into the big kitchen, savory odors arose from a huge
kettle hanging over the fire, for Mrs. Reyburn followed the fashion of
her own people and served soup at least twice a day, even in summer.
"Ah me, but that smells good!" exclaimed Marianne.
"And well it may," returned her mother, sharply, "since you have not
had a hand in it. Gadabout, where have you been? Not a sign of you
since mid-day."
"Victor and I met a pedler," returned Marianne, evading the question.
"See, mamma, what a curious bracelet Victor got for me. Is it not odd
and fantastic? Oh, yes, and what was it the pedler said about the war,
Victor? That it was sure to come; and will father go? and Royal?"
Her mother paused, ladle in hand. "War! Alas, there is much talk of it,
and it will divide families and lay waste the land. You surely are not
thinking of going soldiering, Victor?"
"Not unless I needs must."
"Good!" returned Mrs. Reyburn, approvingly. "That is what I say. Go,
call your father, Marianne."
Glad of escaping her scolding, Marianne ran out. It was still a little
light, for the summer was upon them. The girl went to the stable, from
which the sound of voices came. "Papa," called Marianne, "come, do you
know how late it is?"
"By the clock, no; by my appetite, yes," answered her father, appearing
at the door. "Come, give an account of yourself. Where have you been
hiding all the afternoon? In the woods with the other wild things, I'll
be bound."
Marianne nodded. "That is exactly where; it is so lovely to be out of
doors when summer is coming. I can't bear to be pent up in the house.
We met a pedler."
"We?"
"Yes; Victor and I."
"Ah, Victor was with you?"
"We met in the woods, and came back together. It was Victor who was
showing the pedler the way to Fort Schlosser, and they came my path
so--See my bracelet, papa. Isn't it odd?"
He examined it gravely. "Where did you get it?"
"From the pedler, who got it from an old squaw. Victor bought it for
me."
"Did you happen to hear the pedler's name?"
"Asa Peaslee."
Her father nodded. "I know him. A sharp Connecticut Yankee, yet not
half a bad man. No doubt he drove a good bargain. I wouldn't parade
this thing around. Keep it safe. I saw one something like it once, and
it served as a sort of talisman. This may be useful to you some day."
"Then I will keep it safely. Where is Royal?"
"Where, but at his grandmother's. He'd better live on the other side of
the river altogether, it seems to me. He's his mother's own son--more
French than American."
"While I am more American than French," put in Marianne, with a
satisfied air. "I wish I were as fair as you, papa. It does not seem
right that I should have this dark skin with my blue eyes."
"Your skin is all right," replied her father, pinching her cheek. "You
have a good healthy color."
"Papa," said Marianne, suddenly changing the subject, "shall you fight
if there is a war? And what will Royal do?"
"What he is doing now, no doubt--hob-nobbing with his French cousins.
And I? Well, you needn't ask the son of an old Continental what he will
do. There is going to be war fast enough, and I shall be in it; that's
all."
"And Royal?" Marianne repeated.
Her father compressed his lips. "Let us go in; your mother will be
waiting, and you know she does hate to have a good meal spoiled."
Arm in arm they walked slowly toward the house, the little girl and her
tall father. On the doorstep the man paused and put his hands upon his
daughter's shoulders. "See here, daughter," he said, "don't discuss
this matter of war before your mother; she feels it sorely, and no
wonder. We'll laugh and be merry while we can. Victor is in there?"
"Yes."
"So much the better. He's a good chap, if a little slow."
No reference was made to the matter, which was now becoming a serious
one in the family. Mrs. Reyburn asked, "Where is Royal?" and her
husband replied, "At his grandmother's," and there the subject
dropped. Marianne set herself to playfully teasing her father and
Victor, while her mother sat silent, keeping a furtively watchful eye
upon her husband's countenance.