In that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been unable to learn from
Gabriel the history of his life since they had looked upon one another
last. Of his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew, and of
his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the rest nothing. Most of
all, nothing of his miraculous escape from the treacherous Micmacs
during the voyage from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted with his
lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing under the knowledge that he
could not bend the white boy to his will, had made use of a well-known
half-breed spy to keep him informed of the doings at the fort. This man
was instructed, should the murderous plot fail or the Micmacs be once
more won over to the English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so
that they should at the last moment turn again to France. These higher
bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced by members of their own
tribe, who boarded the vessel under cover of the darkness, the English
crew was overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred. The
exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When the priest heard of the
boy’s escape he scarce knew whether to mourn or to rejoice; for, until
he had seen him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to win
over this choice spirit to his service.
Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to make his way to the
shore, and from thence by a toilsome route to the fort. Arrived there,
all hesitation was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot with
his father’s race; and chiefly in the hope of rescuing the _gran’-père_
and Margot, but also because his natural bent was to a soldier’s career,
he offered his services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them
gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and recommending him
strongly to his successor, to make way for whom he shortly after crossed
the ocean. Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but it was
in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the many to whom he had
shown kindness.
It is doubtful whether the French government invariably approved of the
lengths to which the zeal of Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the
home ministers occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to his
method of interpreting their instructions; which were, in brief, to keep
Acadie at any price, or rather to keep their share of the unhappy
country and take all the rest that was not theirs.
When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the _gran’-père’s_ death, and of the
privations he and the girl had endured, even the new hope for Margot
could not keep back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered the
good old man; therefore he wept and was not ashamed. But doubly
necessary was it now to carry Margot away, though where to bestow her in
the English camp he hardly knew—only he felt sure that a way would be
opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted with his story and would certainly
aid him. Moreover, the smallness of the force caused him to believe that
their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and once at Halifax, Margot
would find refuge with her country-people assembled there. Perhaps there
too, she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly from the
Romish Church, and then perhaps—perhaps—who could say?
But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and the struggle betwixt
love and duty was not yet at an end.
The very next day, when he, with the aid of the faithful Micmac, was
about to carry out his carefully laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having
satisfied himself that his force was too small for the work it would
have to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarkation.
“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a shrug, and gave the
matter no further thought; for Lawrence was made of very different stuff
from Cornwallis, as the Acadians were to discover when he became
governor of the province soon after. Not by nature a patient man, such
patience as he had acquired soon vanished when appointed to direct a
people who, it must be confessed, were not without trying
characteristics. Already he marveled at the leniency of Cornwallis. To
plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace, therefore, Gabriel knew to be
unavailing; probably it would have been so with Cornwallis also, for
after all “discipline must be maintained.” But at least the governor
would have shown some sympathy. There came a moment when the young
soldier was inclined to rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned
his hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to learn he
becomes little better than a castaway. So duty and honor prevailed, and
Gabriel confided his cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a
time as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dangerous
neighborhood; thereafter, if possible, the Indian was to convey the girl
to the fort at Halifax, where were gathered many of her countrymen.
Nevertheless, Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost breaking
heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that bore him rapidly away from
all he loved best on earth, his only consolation being that he was
keeping faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and faith
would not forsake either him or Margot.
And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon his arrival at Halifax
he found great changes. Cornwallis had departed, and his place was
already taken by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excitement of
new arrangements, heightened by the information that the French were
invading the colonies, the recruit was suddenly plunged into another
existence. By the special recommendation of the late governor he was
attached to a lately arrived regiment marching south, and thereupon his
boyhood’s dreams of escaping from the dull Acadian round, and of making
himself of some account in the world, began to show signs of future
fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence, were virtues then as
now sure to make their mark. The day came when the young soldier served
under Washington himself, sharing with him the failure that made the
fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of his whole eventful
life. But Gabriel’s relations with the Father of his country belong to a
part of his career with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which
therefore does not belong to this story. For him the long separation was
in truth less hard than for the girl. He at least could drown the
torturing sense of powerlessness to aid her in constant activity, and in
a succession of duties and dangers; and the hours of his saddest thought
were often interrupted by some stirring call to arms.
Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of endurance—the hardest
of all.
The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily by; and when in the
waning afternoon she crouched in the long marsh grass while the tide
fell lower and lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she
wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in two short hours
neither boat nor canoe could pass up or down the river; for of the
Missaguash nothing would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came not,
and the precious minutes flew.
The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods in the hope of
returning ere long to peaceful English soil, had missed the weighing of
the anchor at early dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged
ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. So the girl crouched in the
grass and waited, while the wife of Louis built a fire upon the firmer
land and cooked from their scanty store of provisions.
Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came creeping up the
Missaguash; and though it came not down, as it should have done from the
English camp, Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the
westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a prayer on her lips.
Nearer and nearer—but that was no bright head bending over the paddle,
but a dark and swarthy one—the head of an Indian; and it was Jean
Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and slipped through
the long grass toward Margot, who was waiting sick at heart. The Micmac
spoke first.
“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward the setting of the sun.
The braves of his nation commanded and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But
the Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth comes again. Let
us go quickly, ere the river too follow the sun.”
Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot faced it bravely. After
all, though their fashion of faith was no longer the same, were not she
and Gabriel both in the hands of the one God?
“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after a moment’s struggle
with her grief; “but Louis and Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do
we follow thee?”
The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where upon the opposite shore,
removed from the burned settlement some two or three miles and concealed
from it by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and cultivated acres
brooded in the hush of evening.
“And those good people will receive me?”
The Indian nodded.
“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can work well, Jean Jacques.”
It was true. The slender, dark-eyed maiden, though of a frailer build
than the majority of Acadian women, possessed the ambition they so often
lacked.
“Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white man and his squaw they must
wait. The waters of the Missaguash droop in their bed.”
“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at the rising of the
tide?”
The Indian grunted in acquiescence.
“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go?”
He pointed southward.
“Ah, to the new fort! There thou wilt be safe.”
“And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the trail is safe for
thee.”
“It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an arrow,” cried the
girl, and was gone.
Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass, there was borne to
him a sound which caused him to fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as
the snake crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry of the
paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer delivered her into the faithful
keeping of the Micmac?
Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques to turn his hand
against those of his own tribe, well as he knew that the lambs of Le
Loutre, with whom he had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many
a time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than lambs.
On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head and gazing. To see
was to act. With the swift and silent motion of the true Indian the
arrow was on the string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the
feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In the background knelt
a woman, clasping a crucifix to her bosom; beside her the prostrate form
of a white man—Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife.
As Jean Jacques sprang forward Marie screamed again, whilst Margot
uttered a cry of joy.
“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques! Hasten, Marie! We will lift
Louis, and bear him to the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead.”
With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean Jacques spoke not.
Wiser than Margot, he knew that the Micmacs never hunted singly, and
that if their coveted prey reached the river in safety—well, the
attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded man, he also knew
that, though enjoined by Le Loutre to do the Acadians no injury, the
lambs constantly employed means more in keeping with their savage
natures than persuasion.
Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis, who was unconscious,
he raised him by the shoulders, and the small party began a hurried
retreat through the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they
walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for more than one
arrow whistled over their heads.
“The brave is now alone,” grunted Jean Jacques in tones of satisfaction.
“Alone he fears Jean Jacques.”
Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but she rejoiced, knowing
that the Indian spoke truth. So doughty a warrior as he would not be
attacked single-handed.
The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide, and the red mud was
over ankle deep. Plunging into it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the
strong, thick-set Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three
proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrowing river.
“God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated Marie, as impelled by
the paddle of the Indian the little vessel glided at last down the
stream.
The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at her ear was cut by
an arrow, which swept on to bury itself in the back of Jean Jacques.
The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but the Indian, though his
swarthy face went ashen gray, said not a word; only when Marie would
have extricated the arrow, muttered, “Touch it not.”
Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe, and both women in
turn put their whole strength into the work, so that aided by the tide
they made rapid progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe bore
up against a green promontory, upon which houses and groups of people
were visible, Jean Jacques fell forward on his face, the life-blood
gushing from his nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid him
upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some time been anxiously
watching the approaching canoe, and were ready with their aid. But
Margot’s first and only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully
as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great; and as the girl
bent weeping over him, it was but glazing eyes he raised to hers.
“Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.”
Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more.
Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian. And, heretic though
he was, they laid him in consecrated earth, blessed by one of the
priests who, French assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were
always permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil, unless
detected in acts of treachery.
* * * * *
[Illustration: “‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’”]
So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace and a refuge with
her country people, but only for a time. When in a few months news of
Lawrence’s return with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre he
sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of homes yet remaining on
the English side of the water. The Acadians, caring not much for
fighting any one, refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the
redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and Annapolis, but
the larger number across the Missaguash. Whether Le Loutre honestly
desired to found a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to
vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly known; at all events
his calculations were at fault regarding a new settlement. The French
shore was already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of filling
up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for the benefit of the
refugees, these hopes were defeated by the corrupt practices of his own
government, which cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy
Acadians, but used them merely as tools. Half clothed and half starved,
the men were at once put to hard, labor, with scanty or no remuneration.
The strong new fort of Beauséjour, built in opposition to the less
imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork of Acadian
refugees. Even then they might not have fared so ill had the supplies
actually sent by the French government ever reached their rightful
destination, but this was far from being the case. Official corruption,
bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, probably, at Beauséjour
than elsewhere. One of the most incompetent and unworthy of the numerous
“office seekers,” to use a modern term, was in command there, and the
“spoils system” was at its height upon the shores of the Missaguash.
Vergor, the commandant, applied but a small portion of the food and
clothing to the uses for which they were intended, and sent the large
remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg, where his confederates sold
them, greatly to his and their profit, but not at all to that of the
poor Acadians.
Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and French soldiers, not
naturally loving the foreign race across the water, yet craving peaceful
homes with them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence, finding
themselves becoming daily more of a burden to their countrymen in the
settlements about Chipody. At length they resolved to inquire secretly
of the English whether they would be allowed to return to their homes,
could they make their escape? The answer was that they could return if
they renewed the oath of fealty to the English crown, the oath they had
so often broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would not be
required by English law to bear arms, but if on the contrary they were
found fighting for, or aiding the French, they would be dealt with as
traitors. Among those who joined in this request were Margot’s
guardians, the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugitives had found
shelter on the south bank of the Missaguash close to the Pont-à-Buot.
Furious, indeed, was the anger of the _abbé_ when he heard of the
backsliding of his people. His ravings were rather those of a lunatic
than of an anointed priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in
the pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant flock. And
Le Loutre was a man who never stopped at mere words. So one night two
things happened; one, however, which had nothing to do with him.
The people for whom Margot worked in return for bare sustenance were not
unkind, but they found Louis and Marie of more service to them, being
stronger and stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope, was
losing physical strength too. That night, as she crossed the meadows
behind the home-going cows, she was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her
faith in the church of her fathers was being dragged up by the roots,
and the fury of the _abbé_, his cruel words in the sacred building a few
hours since, had uprooted it yet more. Yet she had no other spiritual
guide but him—none to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel, who
could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard she had not seen since
the burning of Beaubassin, and she feared that the good old man was in
trouble. It was working and waiting in the dark for Margot.
As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her ear.
“Tst!”
She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on the head of an
Indian, stealthily upreared.
Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct among the Acadians,
and common sense alone intervened to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps
the man had some message for her, a message from him who was ever in her
thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as fair a show of courage as she
could muster.
“Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken French. “Come nearer.
Bent Bow carries a message for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called
‘Wild Deer.’”
Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she approached the
Indian, who she now perceived was no Micmac. He held toward her a little
billet which she eagerly took. Now the good _curé_ at Annapolis, at
Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to read and write,
and never was Margot more thankful than at this moment for the blessed
privilege, though she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome
one.
“Ah!” she cried. “I have nothing to give thee, Bent Bow, to reward thy
faithfulness. The poor Acadians have not so much as a handful of beads.”
“It is enough that I bring thee the billet,” replied the Indian, “and
that I serve Wild Deer. Together, many moons from here, we drove before
us the foreign devils, and there came a night on which the paleface
youth saved the life of the Indian brave.”
“Wilt thou see him again?” cried the girl eagerly.
Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell began to crawl away
through the marsh grass.
“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after him.
“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more. Still walking behind
the cows, she read the precious letter:
MA COUSINE: Would that I knew it was as well with thee as it is
with me. But, alas! this I cannot know. Yet Jean Jacques is
faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of price. Long
ere this he will have told thee why I failed to meet thee.
Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest young men God ever
created. It was a happy day for me when, through my father’s
name, I was appointed to serve under such an one. Sad it is that
a soldier’s life takes me far from thee, but I shall come again,
sweet cousin, to find thee safe and sheltered beside the
Missaguash, far from the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean
Jacques was to carry thee are known by me, and will protect and
cherish thee.
“Ah, Gabriel,” said Margot to herself, the tears upon her cheeks, “well
is it that so much is hid from thee.”
For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington himself
thinks that some great move is to be made, and that the men of
New England are gathering, and that the governor of
Massachusetts and the governor of our poor distraught country
are planning alike against the French. Then I and others who
came southward with me will return. Till then, _ma cherie, mon
amie_, adieu. In English, though I have grown to like my
father’s tongue, methinks these words are not so sweet.
GABRIEL.
And all the way along the meadows her heart sang, “He is coming back.”
But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited her.
Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pulpit, had been making a
house to house visitation of those whom he considered the most
rebellious members his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and
his host, François Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean, where many exiled
Acadians were already in a fair way to starve, was the priest’s usual
punishment; and should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a
threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly kill, his wife
and children. A yet worse fate than banishment awaited Herbes and Marin.
That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured the signers of the two
documents of appeal—to the French and to the English governments—that
if they did not take their names from both papers they should “have
neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in the next.” What could the
poor, hunted Acadians do but obey? And even with obedience came
banishment for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were given the
grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as deputies on behalf of the
Acadians who desired to return to the English side of the river.
Grievous permission, indeed! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright
enough to understand that the _abbé_ would prepare the way before them
in such a manner as to make their mission not only useless, but
terrifying. And truly they were correct in their anticipations, for
after the visit Duquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as follows:
“I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you sent me will not soon
recover from the fright I gave them.”
Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy race was treated.