Concealed in the branches of a wide-spreading oak, Gabriel hoped against
hope to remain hidden from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels.
White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude, but Indians hardly.
His very breathing seemed as if it must betray him.
Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight sound in the deep
glade beneath. To the novice it might mean anything or nothing; to his
practised understanding it was the crack of a twig beneath a human foot.
Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon, though near its setting,
still afforded light sufficient to betray him should its rays fall on
face or hands. Then, for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay
face downward on a branching limb, the hand with which he sustained
himself was palely illuminated; the moon, in her swift course, had
penetrated the sheltering foliage. What should he do? To move meant
certain discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being slightly
in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became aware that some one was
standing beneath the tree. Now in actual fact he held his breath; for
though his sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told him
that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain. Another moment and he
knew the tree was being climbed.
As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, blindly to the
leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel clung instinctively to his
branch, and even when a sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The
forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland creatures; besides,
there was one hope left, faint as it was, and were he to move or speak
he might lose even that.
“Wild Deer?”
“Jean Jacques?”
Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly Micmacs called him. Now for
the test. Was the Indian true?
“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe is on the trail.”
“I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to him?”
The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly back and forth.
“The red man betrays not him who is skilled as himself.”
“What wilt thou do then?”
“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.”
Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity equal to that of
the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from his companion, followed him on his
sinuous track. Was he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red men
not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable consequence of
centuries of savage and relentless warfare, tribe with tribe, red man
with white man. Nevertheless, he pushed on; what else could he do?
The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before they paused on the
edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers were well-nigh spent; ill treatment
and privation had sapped his young strength. The spot where they had
halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. Going to a hollow
tree, Jean Jacques drew from it some strips of sun-dried beef and a few
dried leaves, which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on
which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes arduous journeys,
lasting for days together.
“Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put these leaves in thy mouth
and chew them as we go. The strength of the pale face will come back to
him as that of the young eagle.”
Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the Indian. When at length,
refreshed and strengthened, he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach
Halifax, Jean Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked,
but to leave him.
“I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly.
“Thou wilt go?”
A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be that his apparent rescue
was one of the priest’s deep laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily
bribed with French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of treachery
which should involve the defenders of the fort as well as himself? The
supposition was an only too plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre
and such lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious
countenance revealed nothing. To question him would be vain. Well, he
must go forward and hope for the best; no other course was open to him.
Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair pressed on. As mile
after mile was covered, Gabriel’s strength seemed to renew itself, even,
indeed, as that of the young eagle; hope revived within his breast,
ministering to his keen vitality; and when at last the Indian paused,
and kneeling, examined in ominous silence a bent twig here, a crushed
blade of grass there, and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel
was inclined to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own suspicions.
“Feet have passed this way,” muttered Jean Jacques, “feet of red men,
with them a white man. Let Wild Deer put his head to the ground, and he
will hear them yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander, seeking
it.”
Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded cautiously. Then
again the Indian stopped and listened after his manner.
“They come,” he said, as he once more arose, “many of them. They go to
the fort; but they will not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him
with them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall escape them.”
At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and leaves, concealing
the deserted lair of a gray fox, and Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in
the thought of at sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and
making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant, soon fell asleep.
But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that he had slept but
five minutes when he was aroused by a flash of light in his eyes, and he
opened them to find himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind
them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be seen. Speechless, he
looked from one dark face to another; every one of them he knew to be
unfriendly, or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart felt
nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be thwarted thus! So near the
new life, in which, in his youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be
true to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather and Margot,
vaguely but ardently hopeful that he could save them. And Jean Jacques?
Had he indeed betrayed him?
It was one of those moments of discouragement in which even the falsity
of an untutored savage can pierce the very soul.
“Bind him, and bring him on!” was the priest’s stern command.
Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment, Gabriel offered no
resistance, uttered no word. He was dragged about a mile and then
dropped rudely by the embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a
distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as steel and merciless
as the hand that drives it home.
“Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape me, I, the chosen
instrument of God to bring stragglers back into the fold? My duty is
clear. He who will not bend must break.”
He paused, but his hearer made no sign.
“Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day my converts go on a
friendly mission to the new fort. Must I instruct thee yet again in thy
duty?”
He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel lay as if life itself
were already crushed out of him; every drooping finger of his strong,
right hand nerveless, hopeless. Yet must there have been something of
tacit resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones of
exasperation:
“Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy grandfather and cousin
it will mean suffering and privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every
Acadian is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to the true
church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it is I alone who have the
ordering of their going, and of the new home to which they journey. The
_gran’-père_ is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian
maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when the saving of souls
is in the balance. She must make example, she must discipline. I am no
man meting out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his hands
solemnly, “but chosen of the church to execute her righteous will. This
being so, thou wilt find me relentless in my duty.”
Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit that in some natures
never slumbers long, were reawakening. He found himself wondering why
this autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find it
necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy. Then, as mental vigor
returned more fully, he drew his exhausted body into a sitting posture,
and said:
“_M. l’Abbé_ commands that I shall go with these savages?”
“Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre imperiously. “Who
dares call baptized Christians savages?”
“I name them according to their deeds,” continued Gabriel, with a
certain manly dignity which had come to him of late. “Holy water on the
brow does not change the heart.”
“It doth not!” cried the priest in the same tone. “Jean Jacques is a
pervert—perverted by thyself from the true faith.”
“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel bitterly.
“Dull-witted boy! Knowest thou no better than that?”
Could it be? Was Jean Jacques faithful? Not only that, but free to help
him again? Hope kindled once more within his breast. Then he rose to his
feet and looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre.
[Illustration: “‘M. l’Abbé commands——.’”]
“It is the will of _M. l’Abbé_,” he said again, “that I should go to
Halifax on this ‘friendly’ mission? The Micmacs will camp without the
fort, I shall be received within, and can then learn more than I know
already of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The Indians,
being friendly, will pass in and out with me, two or three perhaps only;
I am to guide them with what secrecy I may from one portion of the
stronghold to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowledge to
the waiting horde concealed within reach, and then at a given signal the
attack is to be made, and, they and I alike familiar with the weak
points of the fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance,
and put all to fire and sword? Is this the will of _M. l’Abbé_?”
Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen-sighted, as he was, he
scarce knew what to make of this boy. Then he said:
“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of God?”
“I promise nothing,” said Gabriel steadily.
“Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of fury, “remember this: If
thou dost play the traitor——”
“He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a calm which compelled
a hearing, “who gives no promise, except that if it be within his power
he will defeat the plot laid.”
“No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre again, “thou art false
to the faith in which thou hast been reared. But forget not that thy
course will be watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy
grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit—yes, with their very lives.
Dost hear me?”
Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But he kept his
steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he replied:
“I hear, _M. l’Abbé_.”
* * * * *
The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped gayly landward before
the strong south wind. On the wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels
kept watch, specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, moving,
automaton-like, on their appointed rounds. But the automatons possessed
eyes, nevertheless, and those directed north were riveted on a band of
Indians who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp about half a
mile from the post.
The British colony at Halifax was now, counting those within and without
its walls, over three thousand strong, and though the settlers without
had been sorely harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning at
last to suspect were set on by the French, despite the peace nominally
existing between the two nations—they continued to thrive and increase.
The Indians at present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs,
who had made a solemn treaty with the British the previous year,
consequently their appearance created but slight interest.
In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible young man, of great
temper and good nature,” was writing, with what for him was unusual
irascibility, a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience had
been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, “who sent Le Loutre as a
missionary to the Micmacs? And is it for their good that he excites
these wretches to practise their cruelties against those who have shown
them every kindness? The conduct of the priests of Acadia has been such
that by command of his majesty I have published an order declaring that
if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions without my express
permission he shall be dealt with according to the laws of England.”
Having finished his letter he gave orders that the French priest,
Girard, should be invited to a final audience. Obedient to the summons,
an elderly man, of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance.
Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously in French.
“_M. le Curé_,” he began, “you know that you are one of very few who
have been required to take the oath to do nothing contrary to the
interests of the country I serve. Is not that so?”
The priest bent his head with quiet dignity.
“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to exact it.”
“Pardon, _M. le Gouverneur_, of me it was not exacted. I rendered it.”
“Pardon, _M. le Curé_, you are in the right. I owe you an apology.”
“_Monsieur_ has nothing for which to make amends. He is all honor and
generosity.”
Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, then continued:
“There are many, however, of whom it would be as well for these simple
Acadians as for helpless English settlers that the oath of allegiance to
my king were demanded. This Abbé Le Loutre, for example, he is a very
firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, working havoc in the
poor, silly flock. Know you him, _M. le Curé_?”
The priest lowered his eyes.
“_M. le Gouverneur_,” he replied in a constrained tone, “it is contrary
to the habit of my order to say of our superior, He is wrong or he is
right.”
“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man frankly. “I made an error.
Tell me, M. Girard, on your return to Cobequid, what course will you
pursue?”
“In accordance with my oath, _M. le Gouverneur_, I shall inform M.
Longueuil that I can make no effort to prevent my people from submitting
to you, according to their own desires.”
“And what, think you, your governor will reply?”
“I know not, _monsieur_, but it is probable that I shall be compelled to
retire from my position.”
The two men, of different creed and antagonistic blood, looked each
other full in the face. Then, with manifestations of mutual respect,
clasped hands.
“Adieu, _M. le Curé_.”
“Adieu, _M. le Gouverneur_. The saints have you in their holy keeping,
and bring you to the shelter of the true fold.”
But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again:
“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half British, know you
aught of him?”
“Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.”
“Yet did the name and he that originally bore it sail once with your own
conquering William from the land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a
Norman name—and you, you yourself come from _la belle Normandie_, is it
not so, _M. le Curé_?”
“It is true, _monsieur_. But this boy, I have heard of him from the
_curé_ at Port Royal. He is a good boy, though, alas, no longer of our
faith.”
“He is to be trusted?”
“So I have been assured, _monsieur_.”
Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under the eastern rampart. “In
the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize
thee.”
The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses departed.
Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession of his inward
convictions to thread the difficult maze that lay before him, Gabriel
joined the New England minister at his frugal meal, and then at his
advice betook himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary body. But
rest to aching heart and tired brain would not come. In whom should he
confide? What should he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue was
limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he felt that he would
soon be master of it. Of but one thing was he certain; come what would,
he must now cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways by
which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous and accustomed to
labor. And the colonists, they would need defenders; he could handle a
musket with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with a groan he
turned his face to the wall. Margot—the grandfather! Like a knife
turning in his heart the harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing
could be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, until these two
were beyond the reach of Le Loutre and his terrible threats. And the
days would slip past as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the
English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows sailing
circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting place, his revolving
thoughts settled down upon their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He
sprang from the bed and was out of the house in less time than it takes
to write the words.
“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he hastened along. But
when he arrived at the priest’s lodging, he was informed that _M. le
Curé_ had started two hours before for Cobequid.
The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart sons, felt her heart
stir in pity for this splendid-looking youth, with the “air noble” and
the sad face. She was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian come
hither from Cobequid.
“But see,” she said, following him out of the door, “_M. le Curé_ was to
tarry awhile at the Indian camp. Maybe he is still there.”
With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet back to the Indian
camp, that nest of traitors. There was, however, no help for it. In any
case he would have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was
closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying his dusky
guardians, two or three of whom on the morrow expected to be conducted
within the walls of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the _curé_
would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune favored him.
As he skirted the low hills to the eastward of the camp, watching his
opportunity, he beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid
Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to take the new oath of
allegiance, making his way across the levels in the direction of the
forest. Girard’s adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. Weary and
spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last remaining strength and ran
swiftly forward to intercept the party. He accomplished his object, and
standing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle greeting.
“And who art thou, my son?”
“My name, _mon père_, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre Grétin, habitan of
Port Royal.”
A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. Then taking the boy by the
arm he led him out of earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock,
said kindly:
“Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, and thou art weary, and
hast a tale to tell.”
“Oh, _mon père_!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable to proceed.
This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well as brave, but that
intense vitality which sends the warm life-blood coursing through the
veins like a torrent instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even
while acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the heart forever
young, exacts also its penalties. Now that the moment had arrived on
which all his hopes hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward
on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate tears that
would not be repressed.
“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying his hand on the fair
head, “thou hast endured much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou
hast this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach thee not,
but for a youth such as thou, thou didst take upon thyself a grave
responsibility.”
But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently he sat up and
shook the curls back from his eyes.
“_Mon père_,” he said, still clinging to the old loved title familiar to
him from earliest childhood, “that I know; I considered long; and forget
not that the faith to which I have turned was the faith of my father.
But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those dearer to me than
life.”
Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred, his forced
abandonment of his grandfather and cousin, their desolate and helpless
condition, and the _abbé’s_ threats should he fail in the task demanded
of him.
“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded Gabriel firmly;
“then should I be traitor indeed.”
M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct of Le Loutre had caused
him and many another gentle-hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the
superior; his authority could not be questioned. He remained silent for
a while; then spoke, not without hesitation.
“My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that way is not without
difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our Acadian youth are often
householders at thine age. Yes, I know, those of English blood are more
backward in such matters, but there must be true affection betwixt you,
and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. Thus thou couldst protect
her and the _gran’-père_ also. The saints forbid that I should encourage
a union betwixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were there any
other way, and did I not hope much from her influence. Wives have
brought erring husbands back to the true fold ere now, and thou art
scarce experienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will endure
another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, that led thee astray.
“Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers of the Holy
Catholic Church dwell in peace, ministered to by priests who have taken
the oath of allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot for thy
wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.”
The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination had
created, rambled on. But after the first Gabriel hardly heard him.
_Margot his wife!_ The hot blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the
flash faded, leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared thus
to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose leaves the delicate
bud, destined in the fullness of time to expand into the radiant flower
of a strong man’s love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not
yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then avert his eyes? When
had he first known that those cool, green leaves held for him such a
pearl of price? It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to
flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy of Le Loutre.
The remembrance of this parting had never left him, despite danger,
suffering, dread, not for one little hour. But that any one should speak
of that of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually, however,
the sense of shock, of desecration, faded; and when after a long and
patient waiting M. Girard addressed him almost in the very words once
used by the _abbé_, but with very different intention, his answer this
time was prompt and decisive.
“_Mon fils_, art thou boy or man?”
“I am a man, _mon père_.”
“Well, think on what I have said.”
The priest gathered up his skirts and arose.
“But, Margot, _mon père_? Her desires may be quite other——”
Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his speech. The old man
looked him up and down. Yes, he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile
flickered on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was:
“My son, these things arrange themselves.”
He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left him, dreamy-eyed and
quiet. Then, with a start he came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard
to go, and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams impossible
of immediate fulfillment; there was work to be done, and that quickly.
With one bound he had overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm.
“But soon—in a day, two days—the _abbé_ will know me disobedient
here,” he cried. “I cannot go to Port Royal, neither can the
_gran’-père_ endure the toilsome journey hither. O _mon père_, advise,
counsel me.”
The priest paused, irresolute.
“My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise thee. For the
_gran’-père_ and the little Margot I will give them what protection I
may. _M. l’Abbé_ visits Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have
taken, and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to drive is
vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in the Holy Mother, _mon
fils_, she will intercede for thee and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou
art no longer of the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.”
With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desolation such as never
in his young life he had felt before, Gabriel watched the figure of him
who represented his last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of
the forest.
But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near us as when we deem
her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent his steps toward the settlement by the
way that he had come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and
confronted him.
“I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known voice, “and at last I
find him.”
“Jean Jacques.”
“It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faithless to the paleface
boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may
yet be well.”