Night had closed in around the new fort of Halifax and upon the houses
clustered about its walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned against
the postern, waiting for the expected summons from the lambs of Le
Loutre. What if his plans should fail? What if the governor’s trust in
the word of a mere boy should falter? What if the feet of Jean Jacques
should waver ere the goal was reached?
Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse which impels one
soul of honor to confide in another, no matter what the dividing line
between them, whether of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and
Jean Jacques was on his way to remove the _gran’-père_ and Margot to a
place of safety, if yet there might be time.
Time! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for the escape of those whom
he loved, happen what might to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in
part depended, he thought. How should the riddle be solved?
The peace and well-being of those two once secured, he would spread his
untried wings and do more than merely dream of a new life beyond the
bars of the narrow cage in which his life had hitherto been passed. He
longed to lead a man’s life,—worthy of Margot, worthy of his dead
father,—not that of a dull steer hitched to a plow!
He had not told Cornwallis that among the Micmacs incited to this deed
of treachery there were in all probability some of his own countrymen
disguised as Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by
threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to perform such
services. It was easy for the priest to protest in case of the capture
of the Acadians that it was not the French who had broken the peace, but
the inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The Acadians were
useful for the encouragement of the Indians; therefore were they used.
Gabriel reasoned that not until the presence of the Acadians was
discovered would the time arrive to plead for them. The governor was a
man of kind heart as well as of good sense, and the boy would represent
to him the simplicity and ignorance of these his country-people, who,
although not loving those of alien blood, would assuredly have lived
peaceably under their rule, had it not been for their priest’s threats
and their terror of eternal damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never
add, that the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its almost
inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness.
Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his room, the tallow
candles in the silver sconces brought from England shedding their
flaring light upon his bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was
alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was clouded with
dejection. His term of service was drawing to a close, and despite his
efforts, the Acadians were no better off than before. Presently he arose
and began pacing the floor.
“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why cannot they understand that
France but uses them as in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat?
They were contented enough before this priest came to scare their small
wits out of them.”
“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have heard that the Acadians
were ever a contentious race, given to petty strife and over fond of the
law.”
The governor smiled.
“And who would deny them those simple joys in their dull lives? Their
harmless disputes kept the sluggish blood moving in their veins and
serious trouble was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation
they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their fate. We have
borne much treachery, but the end is at hand.”
“It will be well for them, my lord, if your successor is as forbearing
as yourself,” observed the secretary gathering up his papers.
There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair head appeared.
“They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice.
“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the governor; “your safety
demands that you should not know too much if it be that you still desire
to go with these savages.”
“It is my only hope, my lord.”
“And if you fail?” Cornwallis added, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s
shoulder. “What then? Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques
nor those dear to you, the country to whom your father proved his
allegiance owes you in turn something.”
“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s voice faltered, “God
sparing me, I shall return to serve under the flag for which my father
fought and died, and in the faith that was his.”
“God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently, and turned aside.
Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Baptiste Cope, the favorite
chief of Le Loutre, when he found himself ushered into the presence of
the governor. He knew that the priest had commanded Gabriel to take
advantage of his knowledge of the fort and of the habits of the sentries
to admit the Micmacs into the building at the dead of night, while all
save the sentries slept; yet here was the dead of night and here stood
the governor himself, cool and grave, and the fort was alive with
wakeful and armed men.
Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which these same Micmacs
had solemnly affixed their totems less than one year before. He was
empowered by his government to go to almost any length in the matter of
bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by such means alone
was peace for the whole unhappy country to be secured. Le Loutre,
deprived of his lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife.
Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this long-continued
trouble. The vacillations and treachery of the wretched Acadians
rendered justice, law, and order alike impossible, and peace and
prosperity were out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt
two masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services Cornwallis
was assured. As the French minister wrote to Prévost, the intendant at
Louisbourg, a French possession in Acadie: “The fear is that the zeal of
Le Loutre and Maillard,” another equally bigoted priest, “may carry them
too far. Excite them to keep the Indians in our interest, but do not let
them compromise us. Act always so as to make the English appear as
aggressors.”
Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his energies to
winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a long pow-wow, the pipe of
peace was again smoked and “Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for
his tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden with gifts and
escorted by the governor in person, they forsook their camp the
following afternoon and embarked on a small schooner, manned by an
English crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. With them
went Gabriel.
Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister: “Last month the
savages took eighteen English scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to
pay them eighteen hundred _livres_, Acadian money, which I have
reimbursed him.”
And the _gran’-père_ and Margot, where were they?
Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not go direct to
Annapolis. He was aware that many of the Acadians had been induced by Le
Loutre to leave the river valley and had betaken themselves to the
larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had reached him that
the English were about to lay claim to their own and send a small force
under Lawrence—destined to be governor of the province—to quell the
constant disaffection created by the French troops at Beauséjour, across
the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin, then, that the Micmac turned his
steps.
He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which has been termed
the first expulsion of the Acadians was in full progress.
It was evening, and the western sky was dark with clouds, but as Jean
Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot, stole swiftly toward the
settlement, he observed to himself that the villagers would have scant
need of their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the women and
children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the unfortunate
Acadians watched the destruction of their homes; not only so, but what
was worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring flames
consuming their church. And the moving spirit of this tragic scene was
their own _abbé_—he whom they had revered and wholly feared.
The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold relief against the
blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, he incited his Micmacs, genuine
and spurious alike, to the dreadful deed.
Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe.
“It is for the good of your souls, my people!” thundered the enthusiast.
“You refused to obey the gentle voice of the true church and follow
where she leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you; to live at
ease under the protection of heretics will bring damnation on your
souls.”
“Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?”
At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised in paint and
feathers, started violently, but peering into the face of Jean Jacques
his fears were quieted.
“’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a sullen boy
reciting a lesson.
Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out of the throng. A brief
colloquy ensued, punctuated by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval;
then, releasing the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the commotion
toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach of the flames. Pushing open
the door, he entered.
Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man, evidently dying. Beside
him knelt a priest performing the last sacred offices of the Catholic
Church, and a young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At a
glance the Indian perceived that he had found those he sought—Pierre
Grétin, Margot, and the good priest of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the
priest not been too much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the
newcomer, the significant fact that the so-called ‘convert’ failed to
cross himself would not have passed unobserved. Jean Jacques kneeled
down, however, reverently enough.
All that night the circle of fire slowly widened, spreading ever more
slowly because the clouds broke in heavy showers; but at length, soon
after the poor old man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was
illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that another place of
refuge must be sought from the fire. Gathering up the few articles the
miserable hut contained, he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by
woods, and then returning he wrapped, with characteristic taciturnity,
the body of the _gran’-père_ in the blanket and, followed by the priest
and the weeping Margot, bore it also away.
“For the sainted _gran’-père_ there is no consecrated ground!” moaned
the girl, casting a backward glance at the smouldering ruins of the
church.
“Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest in soothing tones, as
he led her forward, “for the faithful servant holy ground shall be
found.”
He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy water and in due form
consecrated the spot of earth in the forest in which the _gran’-père_
was to rest. Then seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut,
he set to work with the Indian.
Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre Grétin had
contrived to save in their compulsory flight from the pleasant home in
the Annapolis Valley—a flight which had taken place shortly after
Gabriel’s departure. Even then they might have held on longer had not an
ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor served to keep their obstinacy
ever before the eyes of Le Loutre; for it has been said that the
Acadians were a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they had
found refuge with many others of their race, but on English ground, and
it was on this account that the bigoted priest sought to remove them.
Long had the Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the English,
but out of love for the peace so dear to their sluggish natures and
which they were permitted to enjoy under British rule, so long, at
least, as they refrained from meddling or from bearing arms.
“No coffin, _mon père_?” said Margot timidly at last.
For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground; the work was
done. Then he pointed to a white sail upon the waters of Chignecto Bay.
“The English!” she murmured awestruck; and then again, “And no coffin,
_M. le Curé_?”
“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they do not desecrate
graves. The body of God’s servant will be as safe here as in his loved
Annapolis.”
Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in the grave, and as the
priest took out his breviary and began to read the first words of the
office for the dead, the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to
remove the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short service
over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the filling of the grave.
But even as they worked the mingled sounds of lamentation and exultation
drew nearer, and just as the grave was filled, the imperious figure of
Le Loutre, his face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it.
“What doest thou here, brother?” he said sternly.
“What thou seest, _M. l’Abbé_. I lay in consecrated earth the remains of
this our brother in the faith.”
“In consecrated earth,” cried Le Loutre. “What earth is consecrated trod
by the feet of heretics? M. Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the
holy mother of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of this
servant of the true church.”
He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying fugitives pressing
across the water in boats and on rafts.
M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew that when, for the
sake of his flock as also for the sake of right, he had taken that oath
at Halifax, he had incurred the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical
superiors; but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce ones of
the _abbé_ there was no fear—only the firmness which has led many as
gentle a martyr to the stake.
“_M. l’Abbé_ knows,” he said quietly, “that the ground consecrated by a
priest of the church becomes holy ground, and that to disturb the dead
laid therein is profanation.”
It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before the silent duel was
decided, for some moments elapsed ere either spoke again. Then the hand
of Le Loutre slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his
arrogance could forswear the tenets of the church for which he fought so
zealously.
“But this maiden?”
He spoke with forced indifference.
“She would go under my protection to Cobequid.”
“That shall never be!” exclaimed Le Loutre violently. “Is not one of the
most rebellious of my flock her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous
and seditious youth have access to her? If thou dost desire so great a
wrong, _M. le Curé_——”
But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on her knees.
“_M. l’Abbé_,” she cried, “only tell me that Gabriel—_mon cousin_—is
alive and well, and I will ask nothing further.”
Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a contemptuous pity in
every line of his strongly marked features.
“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. One last chance have I
given the would-be renegade lest he become ere his time an outcast. How
he hath borne himself, I as yet know not.”
But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed dark head.
“My daughter, it is the wish of _M. l’Abbé_ that thou shouldst seek the
French shore. Louis Herbes, thy neighbor, crosses even now with his
wife; it would be well for thee to go with these kind friends.”
“And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all
of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones.
Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously.
“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give
thee.”
He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him.
Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s
side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his
sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now
anchoring the English ship.
“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean
Jacques, and all will be well.”
But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian.
“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.”
“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his
kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and
will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the
white braves harm women.”
“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques!
Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?”
The Indian grunted.
“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, while we waste words the
priest comes, and Jean Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of
the Micmac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, or no?”
Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!”
Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no mood for delay, led
her deeper into the woods.
Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that kind of courage which
will bravely choose and do the right, and even be physically brave for
those she loved, was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted
and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn terror of Indians got the
upper hand, and she uttered a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the
Micmac’s hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released her.
“Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more. Thou wilt not seek
safety? So be it then. The priests come—Jean Jacques goes.”
The girl made a great effort, and though still very pale, held out her
hand with a smile to the Indian.
“Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones which would have won
forgiveness anywhere; “my heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me
whither thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.”
“And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said the Indian, as
together they sped through the undergrowth. “Down beside the crimson
Missaguash there are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even
as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither will the Micmac take
the maiden of Wild Deer.”
“Halt!” thundered a familiar voice. “A straying lamb, indeed—a lamb in
sore need of chastisement.”
But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss. Quicker than the
lightning’s flash the hand of the Indian went to his tomahawk, his eyes
glittering balefully. With a motion almost as rapid the whistle
wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his lips, while with his
disengaged hand he held a crucifix aloft. But that almost might have
ruled betwixt life and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed
her slight body as a shield for the priest.
“Jean Jacques,” she cried, “is this thy new faith? to strike the
anointed of God?”
The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian grunted sullenly. But Le
Loutre, the full violence of whose fanaticism was aroused by the
‘perversion’ of one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified,
though life itself were at stake; and the influence of the paleface
maiden might not have availed to save him, so irritating was the
language he used toward the already enraged Micmac, had not Margot,
aghast at the prospect of beholding the _abbé_ murdered before her very
eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither he would, if so be he
would permit the Indian to depart in peace.
“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre, “that you will follow me
back to the true fold.”
Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and sense, and perhaps
also the recollection of Gabriel’s persecution, were combining to lead
her in spirit away from that fold; and now she drew back.
“I will take no oath, _mon père_,” she said gently, “but I promise to go
with thee now; more I cannot promise.”
Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her hand in grateful
farewell.
[Illustration: “But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.”]
“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and if _mon cousin_ lives,
tell him——”
Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already moving priest.
“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a moment she was in the
arms of its owner.
What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the British soldier, that
he had forsworn the faith of their common forefathers? Was he not
Gabriel still, the playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly
understood, the lover of her youth?
It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore them asunder.
“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the Micmac, who once more
approached threateningly, “release this maiden, unworthy as thou art to
touch the hem of her garment.”
But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. He freed Margot
from his embrace indeed, but held her hand firmly in his, and flushed
and smiling gazed upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture.
“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, _ma cousine_?” he said softly,
bending over her.
She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they rested on his,
heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. Then she remembered, and her
face grew suddenly so pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great
fear. How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He seemed to see it all
now.
“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“It is true,” cried the priest, thrusting himself so abruptly betwixt
the cousins as to compel Gabriel to drop the hand of the girl, “she has
promised to return to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother
church the touch of the heretic is defilement.”
Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air that had ever
exasperated the priest, while winning his reluctant admiration.
“It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said coolly, “at least I am no
longer of your church; and by all laws human and divine, she being my
next of kin, this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, _M.
l’Abbé_, you are upon English ground.”
He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying upon a low hill some
distance away.
The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred.
“The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said. “Come, daughter, bear
in mind thy vow.”
Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often seen them do in the
past. She pressed by the _abbé_, and taking her cousin’s outstretched
hands, said in a low, persuasive voice:
“Gabriel, _mon ami_, it is even so. I promised to go with _M. l’Abbé_ in
order to save his life; there was no other way. But the promise was only
for the day; I would make no further vow.”
Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not refused to swear
upon the cross, and what was a mere promise without some appeal to
superstition? He could not comprehend the force of a higher influence
than that of mere symbolism.
Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside with her, holding her
hands, and looking down into the pathos of those dark eyes which
possessed, even as in the days when they were children together, power
to still the tumult in his breast—the rebellion of a nature more
passionate than her own.
“It is but for this one day, _mon_ Gabriel,” she murmured.
“But for this one day!” he repeated. “And our force is small, and God
alone knows where we may be on the morrow. Margot, must it be?”
“Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when thy heart began to
change toward our church, that to break the promised word was to lie,
and that to lie was deadly sin. Oh, _mon cousin_, dost thou not
remember?”
“I do, I do!” he groaned, passing his hand over his eyes in unbearable
anguish.
“The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “and I shall be with
friends—Louis Herbes and his good wife. They will build them a hut
close beside the water, so that if chance offer they may return to
English soil—dost hearken, Gabriel?”
Gabriel’s face cleared.
“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat—to-morrow—toward the
sunsetting—remember.”
“It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs—they come.”
“I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit awake in an instant;
“let them come. Have I not baffled them already many times? I would bear
thee through a host of them, my Margot.”
“Go, I beseech thee!” she implored, a prayer in her eyes.
“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we meet again,” and
seizing her in his arms he pressed his lips to her brow, and was gone,
followed by Jean Jacques.