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THE BASTONNAIS:
TALE OF THE AMERICAN INVASION OF CANADA IN 1775-76.
BY
JOHN LESPERANCE.
TORONTO: BELFORD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 1877.
Entered according to the Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven, by BELFORD BROTHERS,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture.
TORONTO: WILLIAMS, SLEETH & MACMILLAN, PRINTERS, 124 BAY STREET.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.
CHAPTER
I. Blue Lights
II. Beyond the River
III. At the Chateau
IV. In Cathedral Square
V. Receiving Despatches
VI. Pauline's Tears
VII. Beautiful Rebel
VIII. The Hermit of Montmorenci
IX. The Wolf's Cry
X. The Casket
XI. The Spirit of the Waterfall
XII. Three Rivers
XIII. A Successful Mission
XIV. Crossing the Boats
XV. The Meeting of the Lovers
XVI. The Round Table
XVII. A Noble Reparation
XVIII. Roderick Hardinge
XIX. The Frightened Doves
XX. The Spectral Army
BOOK II.
THE THICKENING OF THE CLOUDS.
I. Zulma Sarpy
II. Fast and Loose
III. The Sheet-Iron Men
IV. Birch and Maple
V. On the Ramparts
VI. The Flag of Truce
VII. The Covered Bridge
VIII. Cary Singleton
IX. The Song of the Violin
X. Blood Thicker than Water
XI. Death in the Falls
XII. Advice and Warning
XIII. A Woman's Tactics
XIV. The Romance of Love
XV. On the High Road
XVI. An Epic March
XVII. O Gioventu Primavera Della Vita
XVIII. Braiding St Catherine's Tresses
XIX. Par Nobile
BOOK III.
THE BURSTING OF THE TEMPEST.
I. Quebec in 1775-76
II. Cary's Message
III. The Unremembered Brave
IV. Practical Love
V. Zulma and Batoche
VI. The Ball at the Castle
VII. The Attack of the Masks
VIII. Unconscious Greatness
IX. Pauline's Development
X. On the Citadel
XI. Horseman and Amazon
XII. Was it Design or Accident?
XIII. The Intendant's Palace
XIV. Little Blanche
XV. In Batoche's Cabin
XVI. A Painful Meeting
XVII. Nisi Dominus
XVIII. Last Days
XIX. Près-de-Ville
XX. Sault-au-Matelot
BOOK IV.
AFTER THE STORM.
I. The Confessional
II. Blanche's Prophecy
III. The Prophecy Fulfilled
IV. Days of Suspense
V. The Invalid
VI. The Saving Stroke
VII. Donald's Fate
VIII. The Burdened Heart
IX. Ebb and Flow
X. On the Brink
XI. In the Vale of the Shadow of Death
XII. In the Fiery Furnace
XIII. Roderick's Last Battle
XIV. At Valcartier
XV. Friendship Stronger than Love
XVI. The Hour of Gloom
XVII. The Great Retreat
XVIII. Consummatum Est
XIX. Final Quintet
THE BASTONNAIS
BOOK I. THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.
I.
BLUE LIGHTS.
He stood leaning heavily on his carbine. High on his lonely perch, he
slowly promenaded his eye over the dusk landscape spread out before him.
It was the hour of midnight and a faint star-light barely outlined the
salient features of the scenery. Behind him wound the valley of the St.
Charles black with the shadows of pine and tamarac. Before him rose the
crags of Levis, and beyond were the level stretches of the Beauce. To
his left the waterfall of Montmorenci boomed and glistened. To his right
lay silent and deserted the Plains of Abraham, over which a vapor of
sanguine glory seemed to hover. Directly under him slept the ancient
city of Champlain. A few lights were visible in the Chateau of St Louis
where the Civil Governor resided, and in the guard-rooms of the Jesuit
barracks on Cathedral-square, but the rest of the capital was wrapped in
the solitude of gloom. Not a sound was heard in the narrow streets and
tortuous defiles of Lower Town. A solitary lamp swung from the bows of
the war-sloop in the river.
He stood leaning heavily on his carbine. To have judged merely from his
attitude, one would have said that he was doing soldier's duty with only
a mechanical vigilance. But such was not the case. Never was sentry set
upon watch of heavier responsibility, and never was watch kept with
keener observation. Eye, ear, brain--the whole being was absorbed in
duty. Not a sight escaped him--from the changes of cloud in the lowering
sky over the offing, to the deepening of shadows in the alley of Wolfe's
Cove. Not a sound passed unheard--from the fluttering wing of the
sparrow that had built its winter nest in the guns of the battery, to
the swift dash of the chipmunk over the brown glacis of the
fortifications. Standing there on the loftiest point of the loftiest
citadel in America, his martial form detached from its bleak
surroundings, and clearly defined, like a block of sculptured marble,
against the dark horizon--silent, alone and watchful--he was the
representative and custodian of British power in Canada in the hour of a
dread crisis. He felt the position and bore himself accordingly.
Roderick Hardinge was a high-spirited young fellow. He belonged to the
handful of militia which guarded the city of Quebec, and he resented the
imputations which had been continually cast, during the preceding two
months, on the efficiency of that body. He knew that the Americans had
carried everything before them in the upper part of the Colony. Schuyler
had occupied Isle-aux-Noix without striking a blow. Five hundred
regulars and one hundred volunteers had surrendered at St. Johns.
Bedell, of New Hampshire, had captured Chambly, with immense stores of
provisions and war material. Montgomery was marching with his whole army
against Montreal. The garrison of that city was too feeble to sustain an
attack and must yield to the enemy. Then would come the turn of Quebec.
Indeed, it was well known that Quebec was the objective point of the
American expedition. As the fall of Quebec had secured the conquest of
New France by the British in 1759, so the capture of Quebec was expected
to secure the conquest of Canada by the Americans in the winter of
1775-76. This was perfectly understood by the Continental Congress at
Philadelphia. The plan of campaign was traced out with this view for
General Schuyler, and when that officer resigned the command, owing to
illness, after his success at St. Johns, Montgomery took up the same
idea and determined to carry it out. From Montreal he addressed a letter
to Congress in which he said pithily: "till Quebec is taken, Canada is
unconquered."
Roderick Hardinge was painfully aware that the authorities of Quebec had
little or no confidence in the ability of the militia for the purposes
of defence. It was necessary in the interest of that body, as well as in
the interest of the city, that this prejudice should be exploded.
Hardinge undertook to do it. No time was to be lost. In a fortnight
Quebec might be invested. He set to work with the assistance of only one
tried companion. Their project was kept a profound secret even from the
commander of the corps.
It was the night of the 6th November, 1775. Hardinge left headquarters
unnoticed and unattended, and proceeded at once to the furthest outpost
of the citadel. He was hailed by the sentinel and gave the countersign.
Then, addressing the soldier by name--the man belonged to his
regiment--he ordered him to hand over his musket. No questions were
asked and no explanations were given. Hardinge was an officer, and the
simple militiaman saw no other course than obedience. If he had any
curiosity or suspicion, both were relieved by the further order to keep
out of sight, but within hailing distance, until his services should be
required. The signal was to be a whistle.
Roderick Hardinge remained on guard from ten till twelve. As we have
seen, he was sharply observant of everything that lay before him. But
there was one point of the horizon to which his eye more assiduously
turned. It was the high road leading from Levis over the table-land of
the Beauce back to the forests. It was evidently from this direction
that the object of his watch was to appear. And he was not disappointed.
Just as the first stroke of twelve sounded from the turret of Notre-Dame
Cathedral, a blue light shot into the air from a point on this road, not
more than a hundred yards from the river bank.
Roused by the sight, Roderick straightened himself up, snatched his
carbine from his left side, threw it up on his right shoulder and
presented arms.
The sixth stroke of midnight was just heard, when a second blue light
darted skyward, but this time fully fifty yards nearer. The man who
fired it was evidently running toward the river.
Roderick made a step forward and uttered a low cry.
The last stroke of the twelve had hardly been heard, when a third light
whizzed up from the very brink of the river.
Roderick turned briskly round and gave a shrill whistle. The faithful
soldier, whose watch he had assumed, immediately rushed forward, had his
musket thrust back into his hands, with an injunction from Hardinge to
keep silence. The latter had barely time to recede into the darkness
when the relief-guard, consisting of a corporal and two privates, came
to the spot and the usual formality of changing sentries was gone
through.
II.
BEYOND THE RIVER.
With a throbbing heart, Roderick Hardinge walked rapidly over the brow
of the citadel into Upper Town. He glanced up at the Chateau as he
passed, but the lights which were visible there two hours before, were
now extinguished, and the Governor was sleeping without a dream of the
mischief that was riding out upon the city that night. He passed through
the Square and overhead the wassail of the officers over their wine and
cards. He answered the challenge of the sentinel at the gate which
guarded the heights of Mountain Hill, and doubled his pace down that
winding declivity. The old hill has been the scene of many an historic
incident, but surely of none more momentous than this midnight walk of
Roderick Hardinge. Along the dark, narrow streets of Lower Town,
stumbling over stones and sinking into cavities. Not a soul on the way.
Not a sign of life in the square, black warehouses, with their
barricades of sheet-iron doors and windows.
In twenty minutes, the young officer had reached the river at the point
where now stands the Grand Trunk wharf. A boat with two oars lay at his
feet. Without a moment's hesitation he stepped into it, unfastened the
chain that held it to the bank, threw the oars into their locks, and,
with a vigorous stroke, turned the boat's nose to the south shore. As he
did this, his eye glanced upward at the city. There it stood above him,
silent and unconscious. The gigantic rock of Cape Diamond towered over
him as if exultant in its own strength, and in mockery of his
forebodings. He rowed under the stern of the war-sloop. A solitary
lantern hung from her bows, but no watchman hailed him from her
quarter.
"The Horse Jockey is evidently a myth for them all," he murmured. "But
he will soon be found a terrible reality, and it's Roddy Hardinge will
tell them so."
The St. Lawrence is not so wide above Quebec as it is at other places
along its course, and in a quarter of an hour, the oarsman had reached
his destination. As the keel of his boat grated on the sands, a man
stepped forward to meet him. The officer sprang out and slapped him on
the shoulder.
"Good old boy, Donald."
"Thanks to you, maister."
"Punctual to a minute, as usual, Donald."
"Aye, sir, but 'twas a close scratch. The horse, I fear, feels it mair
than I do."
"No doubt, no doubt. Rode much?"
"Nigh on ten hours, sir, and nae slackened rein."
"Oh, but my heart leaped, Donald, when I saw your first rocket. I could
hardly believe my eyes."
"Just saved my distance, maister. If I had broken a gairth, I would have
been too late. But it's dune, sir."
"Yes, old friend, and well done."
The two men then entered upon a long and earnest conference, speaking in
low tones. From the animated manner of the old man and the frequent
exclamations of the younger, it was evident that important information
was being communicated by the one to the other. During a pause in the
conversation, Donald produced a small paper parcel which he handed to
Roderick Hardinge.
"'Twas stuckit in the seat o' my saddle, maister," said he, "an I wadna
hae lost it for the warld."
Roderick wrapped the parcel in his bandanna, and carefully placed it in
his breast pocket, after which he buttoned his coat to the chin.
At the end of half an hour, the two men prepared to separate.
"I will now hurry across," said Roderick. "And you, Donald, return to
the inn. You must need rest terribly."
"Twa hours or sae will set me to richts, sir."
"And your horse?"
"He's knockit up for gude, sir."
"Then get another and the best you can find. Here are fifty sovereigns.
Use them freely in His Majesty's name."
Donald bowed loyally and low.
"I will be awake and awa' a gude hour before dawn, maister Roddy. The
sunrise will see me weel oot o' the settlements."
"And we meet here again at midnight."
"Depend upon it, sir, unless the rapscallion rebels should catch and
hang me up to one of the tall aiks o' the Chaudière."
"Never fear, Donald; a traitor's death was never meant for an old
soldier of the King, like you."
The young officer entered his boat and immediately bent to the oars. The
old servant walked up the hill leading to Levis, and was soon lost in
the darkness.
III.
AT THE CHATEAU.
Roderick reached the north shore in safety. He fastened his boat to the
same green, water-worn bulwark from which he had loosened it not more
than an hour before. He walked up to the city along the same route which
he had previously followed. Nothing had changed. Everything was
profoundly quiescent. Every body was still asleep. If he courted
secrecy, he must have been content, for it was evident that no one had
been a witness of his strange proceedings.
When he got within the gates of Upper Town, his pace slackened
perceptibly. It was not hesitation, but deliberation. He paused a moment
in front of the barracks. The lights in the officers' quarters were out
and no sound came from the mess-room. This circumstance seemed to deter
him from entering, and he continued on his way direct to the Chateau St.
Louis. Having passed the guard satisfactorily, he rapped loudly at the
main portal. An orderly who was sleeping in his clothes, on a lounge in
the vestibule, sprang to his feet at once snatching up his dark lantern
from behind the door, and opened. Throwing the light upon the face of
his visitor, he exclaimed--
"Halloa, Hardinge, what the deuce brings you here at this disreputable
hour? Come in; it's blasted cold."
"I want to see His Excellency."
"Surely not just now? He was ailing last evening and retired early. I
don't think he would fancy being drummed up before daylight."
"Very sorry, but I must see him."
"Some little scrape, eh? Want the old gentleman to get you out of it
before the town has wind of it," said the orderly, who by this time was
thoroughly awake and disposed to be in good humor.
"Something far more serious, Simpson, I am concerned to say. You know I
would not call here at such an hour without the most urgent cause. I
really must see the Governor and at once."
This was said without any signs of impatience, but in so earnest a way,
that the orderly, who knew his friend well, felt that the summons could
not be denied. He, therefore, proceeded at once to have the Governor
awakened. With more celerity than either of the young men had looked
for, that official rose, dressed and stepped into his ante-chamber where
he sent for Hardinge to meet him. After a few words of apology, the
latter unfolded to His Excellency the object of his visit. He stated
that while every body in the city was busying himself about the invasion
of the Colony from the west, by the Continental army under Montgomery,
the other invading column from the east, under Arnold, was almost
completely lost sight of. For his part, he declared that he considered
it the more dangerous of the twain. It was composed of some very choice
troops, had been organized under the eye of Washington himself, and was
commanded by a dashing fellow. In addition to his other qualities,
Arnold had the incalculable advantage of a personal knowledge of the
city from several visits which he had quite lately paid it for
commercial purposes. The people of Quebec seemed completely to ignore
Arnold's expedition. They had a notion that it was or would be submerged
somewhere among the cascades of the Kennebec, or, at least, that it
would never succeed in penetrating so far as the frontier at Sertigan.
The Governor wrapped his dressing gown more closely about him, threw his
head back on the pillow of his arm-chair, and gave vent to a little yawn
or two, as if in gentle wonder whether it were worth while to rouse him
from his slumbers for the sake of all this information with which he was
quite familiar already. But the Governor was a patient, courteous
gentleman, and could not believe that even a militia officer would
presume so far on his good nature as to come to him at such an hour,
unless he had really something of definite importance to communicate.
He, therefore, did not interrupt his visitor. Roderick Hardinge
continued to say that, fearing lest Arnold should pounce like a vulture
upon the city while most of the troops of the Colony were with General
Carleton, near Montreal, and in the Richelieu peninsula, and while,
consequently, it was in an almost defenceless condition, he had
determined to find out for himself all the facts connected with his
approach. It might be presumption, on his part, but he had not full
confidence in the few reports on this head which had reached the city,
and wished to satisfy himself from more personal sources.
Here His Excellency smiled a little at the ingenuous confession of the
subaltern, but a moment later, he opened his eyes very wide, when
Roderick told him in minute detail all the circumstances which we have
narrated in the preceding chapters.
"Your man, Donald, is thoroughly reliable?" queried the
Lieutenant-Governor.
"I answer for him as I would for myself. He was an old servant of my
father's all through his campaigns."
"He says that Arnold has crossed the line?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"And that he is actually marching on Quebec?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"And that he is within----?"
"Sixty miles of the city."
The Lieutenant-Governor plucked his velvet bonnet from his head and
flung it on the table.
"Did you say sixty miles?"
"Sixty miles, sir."
His Excellency quietly took up his cap, set it on his head, threw
himself back in his seat, placed his elbows on the elbows of the chair,
closed his palms together perpendicularly, moved them up and down before
his lips, and with his eyes cast to the ceiling, entered upon this
little calculation.
"Sixty miles. At the rate of fifteen miles a day, it will take Mr.
Arnold four days to reach Levis. This is the seventh, is it not? Then,
on the eleventh, we may expect that gentleman's visit."
"Arnold will make two forced marches of thirty miles each, Your
Excellency, and arrive opposite this city in two days. This is the
seventh; on the ninth, we shall see his vanguard on the heights of
Levis."
"Ho! Ho! And is that the way the jolly rebel is carrying on? He must
have had a wonderful run of luck all at once. The last we heard from
him, his men had mutinied and were about to disband."
"That was because they were starving."
"And have they been filled, forsooth?"
"They have, sir."
"By whom?"
"By our own people at Sertigan and further along the Chaudière."
"But horses? They are known to have lost them all in the wilderness."
"They have been replaced."
"Not by our own people, surely."
"Yes, sir, by our own people."
"Impossible. Our poor farmers have been robbed and plundered by these
rascals."
"Excuse me, Your Excellency, but these rascals pay and pay largely for
whatever they require."
"In coin?"
"No, sir, in paper."
"Their Continental paper?"
"The same."
"Rags, vile rags."
"That may be. But our farmers accept them all the same and freely."
Roderick here produced the small parcel which he had deposited in his
breast pocket, and having unfolded it, drew forth several slips which he
handed to His Excellency. They were specimens of American currency, and
receipts signed by Arnold and others of his officers for cattle and
provisions obtained from Canadian farmers.
"Indeed," continued the young officer, "Your Excellency will excuse me
for saying that, from all the information in my possession--information
upon which I insist that you can implicitly rely--it is beyond question
that the population, through which the invading column has passed and is
passing, is favourable to their cause. A trumpery proclamation written
by General Washington himself, and translated into French, has been
distributed among them, and they have been carried away by its fine
sentences about liberty and independence. These facts account for all
the misleading and false reports which we have hitherto received
concerning the expedition. We have been purposely and systematically
kept in the dark in regard to it. Left to itself, Arnold's army would
have disbanded through insubordination, or perished of starvation and
hardship in the wilderness. Comforted and replenished by His Majesty's
own subjects, it is now marching with threatening front toward Quebec."
"Traitors to the King in the outlying districts cannot unfortunately be
so easily reached as those who lie more immediately under our eyes. But
their time will come yet. Meanwhile, we have to keep a sharp watch over
disaffection and treason within the walls of this very city," said the
Lieutenant-Governor with great earnestness and very perceptible warmth.
"This parcel may probably assist Your Excellency in doing so," replied
Hardinge, at the same time delivering the remainder of the package which
he had received from Donald.
"What have we here?" questioned the Governor, while unfastening the
strings which bound the parcel.
"Letters from Colonel Arnold to General Schuyler, the original commander
of the army of invasion. Arnold will be surprised, if not chagrined, to
learn that Schuyler has been succeeded by Montgomery."
"Ah! I see. Well, as these letters are not addressed to General
Montgomery, and as Gen. Schuyler has left the country, it will be no
breach of etiquette on our part if we open them. No doubt they will
furnish very interesting reading. And these?"
"They are letters from Arnold to several prominent citizens of Quebec."
"Impossible."
"Your Excellency will please read the addresses."
The Governor examined the superscriptions one by one, and in silence,
while he made his comments in an undertone.
"Mr. L.--It does not surprise me."
"Mr. F.--I shall inquire into it."
"Mr. O.--As likely as not."
"Mr. R.--Must be some mistake. He is too big a fool to take sides one
way or the other."
"Mr. G.--His wife will have to decide that matter for him."
"Mr. X.--I'll give him a commission, and he'll be all right."
"Mr. N.--I don't believe a word of it."
"Mr. H.--Loose fish. He was false to France under Montcalm. He may be
false to England under Carleton."
And so on through a dozen more. At length he came upon the twentieth
address, when he exclaimed:
"Mr. B.--Impossible! My best friend! But what if it were true? Who knows
what these dark days may bring about? B--! B--! I will see to it at
once."
Saying which, he flung all the letters on the table, and striving to
master his excitement, turned towards Roderick Hardinge, and asked:
"Have you anything else to say to me, my young friend?"
"Nothing more, sir, unless it be to apologize for having occupied so
much of your time, and especially at this hour."
"Never mind that. If what you have told me is all true, the information
is incalculable in importance. I shall lose no time in acting, and shall
not forget you, nor your old servant. I will send out scouts at once,
and proceed myself to the examination of these letters which you have
placed in my hands. The situation is grave, young man. You have done
well, and to show you how much I appreciate your conduct, I intend
employing you on a further mission. You have not slept this night?"
"No, Your Excellency."
"It is now half-past five. Go and rest till noon. At that hour come to me
with the best saddle horse in your regiment. I will give you your
instructions then."
Roderick Hardinge gave the salute and took his departure just as the
first streaks of dawn lighted the sky.
No one accosted him in the vestibule. The sentinel at the entrance did
not even notice him. He walked straight to the barracks. As he crossed
the Cathedral-square, a graceful hooded figure glided past him and
entered into the old church. It was pretty Pauline Belmont. Roderick
recognized her, and turned to speak to her, but she had disappeared
under the arcade. Alas! if either of them had known.
IV.
IN CATHEDRAL SQUARE.
There was a notable stir in Quebec on the morning of the 7th November,
1775. The inhabitants who had retired to their houses, the evening
before, in the security of ignorance, rose the next day with the vague
certainty of an impending portent. There was electricity in the air. The
atmosphere was charged with moral as well as material clouds. People
opened their windows and looked out anxiously. They stood on their
doorsteps as if timorous to go forward. They gathered in knots on the
street corners and conferred in low tones. There was nothing definite
known. Nobody had seen anything. Nobody had heard anything. Yet all
manner of wild stories circulated through the crowds. Strange fires were
said to have burned in the sky during the night. A phantom sentinel had
kept watch on the citadel, a spectral waterman had crossed the river
with muffled oars, a shadowy horseman from the forest had dashed through
Levis, and his foaming steed had fallen dead on the water's edge. Those
who disbelieved might see the corse of the animal in a sand-quarry not a
hundred yards from where he fell. And there was more. A mysterious
visitor had called upon the Governor in the small hours. A long
conference had taken place between them. The Governor was in a towering
rage, and the stranger had departed upon another errand as singular as
that which had brought him to the Chateau. These and other more
fantastic rumors flew from mouth to mouth and from one end of the city
to the other. It is wonderful how near the truth of things above them
the ignorant crowd can come, and how powerful is the instinct of great
events in vulgar minds. By ten o'clock Quebec was in an uproar, and
Cathedral-square was full of people.
Facing the Square from the east was the barracks. But no signs of
commotion were visible there. Two sentries walked up and down their long
beats as quietly as if on parade. Privates who were off duty stood
leaning against the wall or the door-frames of the building, with their
hands in their pockets and one leg resting over the other. Some even
smoked their pipes with that half-blank, half-truculent expression which
people find so provoking in public officials at times of popular
excitement. Still a close inspection showed that the military were
busier than usual. Patrol guards issued from the courtyard at more
frequent intervals, and the knowing ones observed that they were
doubled. It was noticed also that more parts of the city were being
guarded than the day before. For instance, fully one hundred men were
detached for service along the line of the river where previously there
were few or none. Officers, too, were constantly riding to and from the
barracks, evidently carrying orders. Passing through the Square, they
moved slowly, but in the side streets accelerated their pace.
The forenoon thus wore away. The sky kept on thickening and lowering
until it broke into a snow-storm. A light east wind arose, and the white
flakes tossed and whirled, blotting out the lines of the horizon. The
heights of Levis melted in the distance, the bed of the river was
surmounted by a wall of vapor, and the tall rock of the citadel wavered
like a curtain of gauze. What a delicious sense of isolation is produced
by an abundant snowfall. It hems you in from all the world. You extend
your hand feeling for your neighbor, and you touch nothing but a
palpable mist. You raise your face to the heavens, and the soft touch of
the flossy drops makes you close your eyes as in a dream. The great
crowd in the Square was thus broken into indistinct groups, and its
mighty rumor dwindled to a murmur in the heavy atmosphere. But all the
same the expectant and anxious multitude was there, and its numbers were
continually increasing. Women, wrapped in scarfs or muffled in hoods,
now added to its volume. Priests from the neighboring Seminary, in
shovel hats, Roman collars, and long black cloaks, quietly edged their
way through the masses. And the irrepressible small boy, the very same a
hundred years ago as he is to-day, dashed in and out, from the centre of
the crowd to its circumference, intent upon seeing and hearing
everything, yet blissfully incurious of the dread secret of all this
gathering.
Suddenly there was a movement in the centre of the Square. The
concentric circles of people felt it successively till it rippled to the
very outskirts of the assemblage. Everybody inquired of his neighbor
what had happened.
"Two men are fighting," said one.
"A woman has fallen into a fit," said another.
"Old Boniface is glancing a jig," said a third.
Whereupon there was a laugh, for Boniface was a mountebank of La
Canardiere, famous in the city and all the country side.
"A Bastonnais prisoner has just been brought in," said a fourth.
At this a serious interest was manifested. A Bastonnais prisoner meant
an American prisoner. The expedition of Arnold was known to have started
from Boston. Hence its members were called Bostonese. Bastonnais is a
rustic corruption for the French Bostonnais, and the corruption has
extended to our day. The whole American invasion is still known among
French Canadians as _la guerre des Bastonnais_. There is always a
certain interest attached to national solecisms, and we have retained
this one.
"It is none of any of these things," said a grave old gentleman, who was
working his way out of the crowd with a scared look.
"What is it?" asked several voices at once.
"One of our own citizens has been arrested."
"Arrested! arrested!"
"Well, if he is not arrested, he is at least summoned to the Chateau."
"Who is it?"
"M. Belmont."
"What! the father of our nationality, the first citizen of Quebec? It
cannot be."
"Ah, my friends! let us disperse to our homes. This is a day of
ill-omen. Things look as if the sad times of the Conquest were
returning. '59 and '75! It seems that we have not suffered enough in
these sixteen years."
And the old gentleman disappeared from the throng.
What happened was simply this. A tall young man, dressed in a long
military coat, had for a time mingled in the crowd, looking at nearly
every one as he moved along. When at length he was well in the midst, he
seemed suddenly to recognize the object of his search, for he stepped
deliberately up to a middle-aged gentleman, and handed him a paper. With
a movement of surprise, the gentleman received the missive and looked
sharply at the messenger. He glanced at the address, while a perceptible
thrill shot over his features. He then hurriedly broke the seal and ran
his eye over the brief contents of the letter, after which he crumpled
it into his pocket.
"How long since this paper was despatched?" he asked rather testily of
the young messenger.
"Over an hour ago, sir."
"And why was it not delivered at once?"
"Because I could not find you at your residence, and had to seek you in
this dense multitude," was the firm, yet respectful reply.
"Are you an aide de camp of His Excellency?"
"I have that honor, sir."
"There is then no time to be lost. Let us go immediately."
The two men turned and a way was immediately opened for them by the
crowd, while a suppressed murmur greeted them as they passed. A frail
girl, with azure veil drawn closely over her face, hung heavily on the
arm of the elder. When they reached the corner of Fabrique-street, which
debouches into the Square at the north-west angle of the Cathedral,
these two separated.
"What does it mean, father?" asked the girl in a timid voice.
"Nothing, my child. Go home directly and await my return. I will be with
you within an hour."
The girl went up the narrow street, and the two men wended their way in
silence to the Chateau St. Louis.
After this incident the Square gradually emptied until only a few idlers
were left.
V.
RECEIVING DESPATCHES.
A little before noon Roderick Hardinge stepped down from his quarters
into the courtyard of the barracks, booted and spurred. A full-blooded
iron-grey charger, instinct with speed and strength in every limb, stood
saddled and bridled for him. The man who held him by the head happened
to be the soldier whose watch Hardinge had kept the night before.
"Is that you, Charles?" said the young officer tightening his girth by
two buckle holes.
"Yes, sir," replied the soldier, showing the white of his teeth.
"And all right this morning?"
"Yes, thank you, sir."
Hardinge vaulted into the saddle at one spring. Then lacing the reins in
his left hand, he continued:
"Not been blabbing, Charles?"
"Oh, no, sir. Mum's my word."
"That's right. But did you see everything?"
"I saw the three rockets, sir, if that's what you mean, and knew they
were meant for you. But what they were fired for I didn't know till this
morning, when I heard the talk in the Square. Folks are pretty wild
altogether this morning, sir."
"So they are, but they will be wilder when they know all. In the
meantime keep everything to yourself, Charles, till you hear from me
again. Good-bye."
The soldier touched his cap, and the officer trotted through the
archway.
A moment later he dismounted at the portal of the Chateau, threw the
bridle into the hands of a groom in waiting, and entered. The
Lieutenant-Governor was in his office, and evidently expected him, for
he immediately rose and congratulated him on his punctuality. He then
proceeded to business without delay.
"You are well mounted?"
"I think I have the fleetest and best-winded horse in the army."
"You will need him. Three Rivers is eighty miles from Quebec."
"As the crow flies, Your Excellency. By the road it is something more."
"You must be there by ten o'clock to-night."
"I will be there."
"Here are despatches for the Commandant of Three Rivers."
And he handed the officer a sealed package which the latter at once
secured in his waistcoat pocket.
"These despatches," the Governor continued, "contain all the information
of military movements in this vicinity which I have been able to procure
up to the last moment. But as no written statement can ever be so full
as a verbal communication, I authorize you to repeat to the authorities
of Three Rivers all the details which you gave me during the night.
There was considerable exaggeration in the story of your man
Donald"--here the Governor smiled a little--"but I have reason to
believe that the substance of it is true, and I am going to act upon it.
Arnold's column is marching on Quebec. That is the great point. Its
arrival is only a question of time. It may be in ten days, eight days,
six days, four days--"
"Or two days," Hardinge could not help suggesting in a jovial way.
"Yes, perhaps even two days," continued the Governor quite seriously.
"Hence the necessity of your speed to Three Rivers. When you spoke to me
this morning, I was so impressed that I resolved then to communicate
with the military posts up the river, but before actually sending you,
I thought it best to make further inquiries. The information I have now
received justifies me in despatching you at once. The letter of Arnold
to Schuyler and some of those he addressed to residents of this city,
especially one, yes, one"--and here, for a moment, the Governor got very
excited--"have revealed his whole plans to me. To horse then and away
for King and country."
Hardinge bowed and walked to the door. On reaching the threshold, he
paused and said:
"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but there is one thing I forgot to tell you
before, and which, perhaps, I ought to tell you now?"
"What is it?"
"I promised to meet Donald again to-night."
"When?"
"At twelve."
"Where?"
"On the other side of the river, just above the Point."
"Will he have important news?"
"It may or may not be important, but it will be fresh, inasmuch as he
will have been all day reconnoitering the enemy on a very fast horse."
"Can he not cross to this side?"
"He has no instructions to that effect. Besides, he will arrive at the
rendezvous at the last moment."
"Then I will meet him myself. Good morning."
Noon was just striking when Roderick cleared the gates and took the high
road to Three Rivers.
VI.
PAULINE'S TEARS.
When Pauline Belmont reached her home, after separating from her father
at the Square, she was considerably troubled. She could not define her
fears, if, indeed, she had any, but mere perplexity was enough to weigh
down her timid, shrinking little heart. She went up into her room, put
off her furs, and, as she removed her azure veil, there was the gleam of
tears in her beautiful brown eyes. She seated herself in her low rocking
chair, and placing her feet on the edge of the fender, looked sadly into
the flames. Little did Pauline know of the great world outside. Her home
was all the universe to her, and that home centred in her father. Mother
she had none. Sisters and brothers had died when she was a child. She
had spent her youth in the convent of the gentle Ursulines, and now that
she had finished her education, she had come to dedicate her life to the
solace of her father. M. Belmont was still in the prime of life, being
barely turned of fifty, but he had known many sorrows, domestic, social
and political, and the only joy of his life was his darling daughter. An
ardent Frenchman, he had lived through the terrible days of the Conquest
which had seared his brow like fire and left only ashes in his heart. He
had buried his wife on the memorable day that Murray made his triumphal
entry into Quebec, and within three years after that event, he laid
three babes beside their mother. Had Pauline died, he too should have
died, but as that lovely flower continued to blossom in the gloom of his
isolation, he consented to live, and at times even to hope a little for
her sake. Fortunately large remnants of his fortune remained to him.
Indeed, he was accounted one of the wealthiest men of Quebec. As his
daughter grew to womanhood, he used these riches to beautify his home
and make existence more enjoyable to her. He was also a generous friend
to the poor, especially those French families whom the war of 1759 and
1760, had reduced to destitution. Those who could not abide the altered
forms of British rule and who desired to emigrate to France, he assisted
by every means in his power, while those whom circumstances forced to
remain in the vanquished province always found in him a patron and
supporter. As time wore on, his friends induced him occasionally to
withdraw from his solitude and take a feeble part in public affairs. But
this interest was purely civic or municipal, never political. He
persistently kept aloof from legislative councils and his loyalty to
England was strictly passive. The ultra-British did not like him, always
putting him down in their books as a malcontent.
When the news of the revolt of the Thirteen Colonies reached Quebec, it
had at first no perceptible effect upon him. It was only a quarrel of
Englishmen with Englishmen. The casting of tea chests into the waters of
Boston Bay he scoffed at as a vulgar masquerade. The musketry of Concord
and Lexington found no echo in his heart. But when one day he read in
his favorite _Gazette de France_ that _la patrie_ had designs of
favoring the rebels, a flash of the old fire rose to his eyes, and he
tossed his head with a show of defiance. Then came the thunders of
Bunker Hill, and he listened complacently to their music. Then came
rumors of the rebel army marching into Canada with a view of
fraternizing with the conquered settlers of its soil. There was
something after all then in this revolution. It was not mere petulant
resistance to fancied oppression, but underlying and leavening it, there
was a germinating principle of freedom, a parent idea of autonomy and
nationality. He read the proceedings of the Congress at Philadelphia
with ever-increasing admiration, and for once he admitted the wisdom of
such British statesmanship as that of Pitt Burke and Barre, the immortal
friends of the American Colonies.
All these things little Pauline remembered and pondered as she sat in
her low chair looking into the fire. She did not do so in the
consecutive form or the big words which we have just employed, but her
remembrance was none the less vivid and her perplexity none the less
keen, for all the phases of her father's mental life were well known to
her in those simple intuitive ways which are peculiar to women. She
concluded by asking herself these questions:
"Has my father said or done anything to compromise himself within the
last few hours? Why did M. de Cramahé send for him in such haste? The
Governor is a friend of the family and must surely have cause for what
he has done. And why was my poor father so agitated, why the young
officer so grave, why the people so deeply impressed at the scene?"
She looked up at the clock over the mantel and found that an hour had
been spent in these musings. Her father had promised to be back within
that hour, and yet there were no signs of him. She went to the window
and looked out, but she failed to see his familiar form advancing
through the snow-storm.
We have said that Pauline's life was wholly wrapped up in her father.
That was strictly true in one sense, but in another sense, we must make
note of an exception. There were new feelings just awakening in her
heart. She was entering that delicious period of existence which is the
threshold of the paradise of love.
"Oh! if he were only to come," she murmured, "or if I could go to him.
He would relieve my anxiety at once. I will write him a note."
She went to her table and was preparing paper and pen, when the maid
entered the room and delivered her a letter.
"It is from himself, I declare," she exclaimed, and all the sorrow was
dispelled from her eyes. She opened the letter and read.
Dear Pauline:--
I saw you going into the church this morning and wanted to speak to
you, but you were too quick for me. I should very much have liked
to run up in the course of the forenoon, but that too was
impossible. So I send a line to say that I am off at noon on
military duty. I don't know yet where I am going, nor how long I
shall be away. But I trust the journey will be neither far nor
long. I shall see you immediately on my return. I suppose you and
your father saw the crowd in the Square this morning. It was great
fun. Give my respects to M. Belmont and believe me,
Ever yours, devotedly,
RODDY.
Pauline was still holding this note in her hand, thinking over it, when
her father surprised her by walking into the room. He was very pale, but
otherwise bore no marks of agitation. Setting his fur cap on the table
and throwing open his great coat, he took a seat near the hearth. Before
his daughter had time to say anything, he asked her quietly what she had
in her hand.
"It's a letter, papa?"
"From whom?"
"From Roddy."
"Roderick Hardinge? Burn it, my dear."
"But, papa--"
"Burn it at once."
"But he sends you his love."
"He has just sent me his hate. Burn it, my daughter."
Poor Pauline was overwhelmed with surprise and sorrow, but, without a
word further, she dropped the paper into the fire. Then throwing her
arms around her father's neck, she burst into a tempest of tears.
VII.
BEAUTIFUL REBEL.
Hardinge had not been gone more than half an hour when the skies lifted
and the snow-storm ceased. The wind then shifted to the north, driving
the drifts in banks against the fences and low stone walls, and leaving
the road comparatively clear. He thus had splendid riding in the open
spaces. He was in exultant spirits, of course, for he had everything in
his favor--a magnificent horse upon whose speed and endurance he could
rely, the opportunity of exploring a long stretch of country previously
unknown to him, and, above all, the sense of being employed on a
military expedition of the greatest importance. He had played for high
stakes and had won them. At one stroke, he had rehabilitated the militia
and brought his own name into prominence. The way was now open to him in
the career which he loved and which his father had honored. If all went
well with him he would win advancement and glory in this war. And he had
no misgivings. What young soldier has with the bright sky over his head,
the solid earth under his feet, the wide world before him, and the whiff
of coming battle in his nostrils?
He imparted his own animation to his steed. The noble grey fairly flew
over the ground, and Roderick saw from the first that he would have to
restrain rather than impel him. His first stoppage was at
Pointe-aux-Trembles, a beautiful village, which became historic during
the war of invasion and with which will be associated several of the
incidents of this story. He passed the inn of the place so as to avoid
the queries and comments of the loungers who might be congregated there,
and pulled up at a neat farm house on the outskirts. Without
dismounting, he asked that his horse might be watered, while he
requested for himself a bowl of milk and a few drops of that good old
Jamaica which all Canadian families had the good sense to keep in their
houses at this period. As he was thus comforting himself, he noticed a
pair of sparkling blue eyes laughing at him through the narrow panes of
the road window. He did not try to be very inquisitive, but he could not
help observing, in addition, that the roguish blue eyes belonged to a
face of rare beauty, and that the form of the lady--for she was a lady,
every inch of her--so far as it could be defined by the diminutive
aperture, was of an exquisitely graceful mould. One observation led to
another, and he very naturally associated this lady with the purple
pinion that sat on the back of a little bay mare which was hitched near
the door.
His own horse had drained his bucket, and was champing his bit, as if
anxious to be off once more; he himself had emptied his bowl and he was
vainly endeavoring to force a few pieces of coin upon the denying
farmer, when the door of the dwelling opened and the lady walked forth.
She arranged the bridle herself, and placing her foot on the lowest step
of the porch, seated herself snugly in the saddle without assistance.
Then wishing the farmer and the farmer's jolly wife and the farmer's
multitudinous children a sweet _bonjour_, she gently cantered away, not
without a parting shaft from those murderous blue eyes at the handsome
cavalier. Venus and Adonis! but she was going in his direction. So,
bowing politely to the household, he immediately followed, and to his
unspeakable delight--for this was an adventure he certainly had not
looked for--he caught up with her at the first turn of the road. When he
came alongside, he pulled in his reins, took off his cap and bowed. The
salute was returned with a superb yet easy grace. His ardent glance took
a full view of her with lightning speed and precision. He felt that he
was in the presence of a grand woman.
"As we seem to be travelling in the same direction, will mademoiselle
allow me to accompany her to her destination?"
"Thank you, sir; a military escort is always welcome, especially to a
lady, in these troublous times, but I really do not live very far--only
ten miles."
"Ten miles!" exclaimed Hardinge.
The lady broke out into a merry laugh, and said:
"You wonder. This little beast is like the wind. You are well mounted,
but I doubt you can follow me. Will you try?"
So saying, she snapped her white fingers, and the little Canadian pony,
making a leap into the air, was away like an arrow. Hardinge dashed off
in pursuit, and for a time held his own bravely, the horses keeping neck
to neck, but presently he fell behind and the lady disappeared out of
sight. When at length he came up with her, she was waiting at the gate
of her father's house, a mansion of fine colonial dimensions, standing
in a bower of maples. She was laughing heartily and enjoying her
triumph. Hardinge, touching his cap gracefully, acknowledged his defeat.
"This will be a lesson for you, sir," she said.
"A lesson, mademoiselle?"
"It will teach you to chase rebels again."
"Beautiful rebel," murmured Roderick, bowing profoundly and wholly
unable to conceal his admiration.
"You don't choose to understand me," she said, half seriously and half
jestingly, "but later, perhaps, you will do so. I believe I am speaking
to Lieutenant Hardinge?"
"That is my name, at your service, mademoiselle, and am I mistaken in
presuming that I address a member of the Sarpy family, for this is the
mansion of Sieur Sarpy, well known to me."
"I am his daughter. I have only lately returned from France where I
spent many years."
"Not the Zulma of whom I have heard your brother speak so often?"
"The same."
And the wild frolic of her spirits broke out into a silvery peal, as she
seemingly recollected some idea connected with the name. She invited
Roderick to dismount and enter, but he was obliged to excuse himself as
having tarried already too long, and thus this adventure terminated. Its
romantic sequel will be related in subsequent chapters.
Hardinge pursued his journey without further episodes of interest. The
road between Quebec and Three Rivers was not what it is at present.
There were no corduroys across the swamps, no bridges over the streams
and the way was blocked for miles upon miles by the unpruned forest,
through which a bridle path was the only route. Notwithstanding all
these drawbacks, however, our horseman had reached Three Rivers, stabled
his grey, and delivered his despatches before ten o'clock that night. He
was very tired, indeed, when he retired to rest, but this did not
prevent the youthful brain from dreaming, and the youthful lips from
murmuring:
"Beautiful rebel!"
VIII.
THE HERMIT OF MONTMORENCI.
His name was Baptiste, but he went by the more familiar appellation of
Batoche. His residence was a hut near the Falls of Montmorenci, and
there he led the life of a hermit. His only companions were a little
girl called Blanche, and a large black cat which bore the appropriate
title of Velours, for though the brute was ugly and its eyes,
"Had all the seeming
Of a demon's that is dreaming,"
its coat was soft and glossy as silken velvet. The interior of the hut
denoted poverty, but not indigence. There was a larder in one corner; a
small oven wrought into the chimney to the right of the fire-place;
faggots and logs of wood were piled up near the hearth, and diverse
kitchen utensils and other comforts hung brightly on the wall. In the
angle of the solitary room furthest from the door, and always lying in
shadow, was a curtained alcove, and in this a low bedstead over which a
magnificent bear-skin was thrown, with the head of the animal lying on
the pillow, and its eyes, bulging out in red flannel, turned to the
rafters above. Directly behind the door stood a wooden sofa which could
sit two or three persons during the day, but which, at night, served as
the couch of little Blanche. A shallow circular cavity in the large blue
flag of the hearth was the resting place of Velours. On two hooks within
easy reach of his hand, rested a long heavy carbine, well worn, but
still in good order and with which, so long as he could carry it,
Batoche needed never pass a day without a meal, for the game was
abundant almost to his very door. From the beams were suspended an
array of little bags of seeds, paper cornets of dried wild flowers and
bunches of medicinal herbs, the acrid, pungent odor of which pervaded
the whole room and was the first thing which struck a stranger upon
entering the hut.
The habitation of Batoche was fully a mile from any other dwelling.
Indeed, at that period, the country in the immediate vicinity of the
Falls of Montmorenci was very sparsely settled. The nearest village, in
the direction of Quebec, was Beauport, and even there the inhabitants
were comparatively few. The hut of the hermit was also removed from the
high road, standing about midway between it and the St. Lawrence, on the
right side of the Falls as one went toward the river, and just in a line
with the spot where they plunge their full tide of waters into the rocky
basin below. From his solitary little window Batoche could see these
Falls at all times, and under all circumstances--in day time, and in
night time; glistening like diamonds in the sunlight, flashing like
silver in the moonbeams, and breaking through the shadow of the deepest
darkness with the corruscations of their foam. Their music, too, was
ever in his ears, forming a part of his being. It ran like a web through
his work and his thoughts during the day; it lulled him to sleep at
night with the last ember on the hearth, and it always awoke him at the
first peep of dawn. The seasons for him were marked by the variation of
these sounds--the thunderous roar when the spring freshets or the autumn
rain-falls came, the gentle purling when the summer droughts parched the
stream to a narrow thread, and the plaintive moan, as of electric wires,
when the ice-bound cascade was touched upon by certain winter winds.
Batoche's devotion to this cataract may have been exaggerated, although
only in keeping, as we shall see, with his whole character, but really
the Falls of Montmorenci are among the most beautiful works of Nature
on this continent. We all make it a point to visit Niagara once in our
lives, but except in the breadth of its fall, Niagara has no advantage
over Montmorenci. In altitude it is far inferior, Montmorenci being
nearly one hundred feet higher. The greater volume of Niagara increases
the roar of the descent and the quantity of mist from below, but the
thunder of Montmorenci is also heard from a great distance, and its
column of vapor is a fine spectacle in a strong sunlight or in a storm
of thunder and lightning. Its accessories of scenery are certainly
superior to those of Niagara in that they are much wilder. The country
around is rough, rocky and woody. In front is the broad expanse of the
St. Lawrence, and beyond lies the beautiful Isle of Orleans which is
nothing less than a picturesque garden. But it is particularly in winter
that the Falls of Montmorenci are worthy of being seen. They present a
spectacle unique in the world. Canadian winters are proverbial for their
severity, and nearly every year, for a few days at least, the mercury
touches twenty-five and thirty degrees below zero. When this happens the
headlong waters of Montmorenci are arrested in their course, and their
ice-bound appearance is that of a white lace veil thrown over the brow
of the cliff, and hanging there immoveably. Before the freezing process
is completed, however, another singular phenomenon is produced. At the
foot of the Falls, where the water seethes and mounts, both in the form
of vapor and liquid globules, an eminence is gradually formed, rising
constantly in tapering shape, until it reaches a considerable altitude,
sometimes one-fourth or one-third the height of the Fall itself. This is
known as the Cone. The French people call it more poetically _Le Pain de
Sucre_, or sugar-loaf. On a bright day in January, when the white light
of the sun plays caressingly on this pyramid of crystal, illuminating
its veins of emerald and sending a refracted ray into its circular
air-holes, the prismatic effect is enchanting. Thousands of persons
visit Montmorenci every winter for no other object than that of
enjoying this sight. It is needless to add that the youthful generation
visit the Cone for the more prosaic purpose of toboganning or sledding
from its summit away down to the middle of the St. Lawrence.
IX.
THE WOLF'S CRY.
It was an hour after sunset, and the evening was already very dark.
Batoche had stirred the fire and prepared the little table, setting two
pewter plates upon it, with knife and fork. He produced a huge
jack-knife from his pocket, opened it, and laid that too on the table.
He then went to the cup-board and brought from it a loaf of brown bread
which he laid beside one of the plates. Having seemingly completed his
preparations for supper, he stood still in the middle of the floor, as
if listening:
"'Tis strange," he muttered, "she never is so late."
He walked to the door, which was flung open into his face by the force
of the wind, and looked long and intently to the right and to the left.
"The snow is deep," he said, "the path to the high road is blocked up.
Perhaps she has lost her way. But, no. She has never lost her way yet."
He closed the door, walked absently over the room, and after gazing up
and around for a second or two, threw himself into a low,
leather-strapped chair before the fire. As he sits there, let us take
the opportunity of sketching the singular being. His face was an
impressive one. The chin was long and pointed, the jaw firm. The lips
were set as those of a taciturn man, but not grimly, and their corners
bore two lines as of old smiles that had buried their joys there
forever. A long and rather heavy nose, sensitive at the nostrils. High
cheek bones. A good forehead, but rather too flattened at the temples.
Long, thin meshes of white hair escaping through the border of the high
fox-skin cap. The complexion was bronze and the face beardless. This
last feature is said to be characteristic of low vitality, but it is
also frequently distinctive of eccentricity, and Batoche was clearly
eccentric, as the expression of his eyes showed. They were cold grey
eyes, but filled with wild intermittent illuminations. The reflection of
the fire-light gave them a weird appearance.
Batoche sat for fully half an hour in front of the fire, his long thin
hands thrust into his pockets, his fox-skin cap dashed to one side of
his head and his eyes steadily fixed upon the flames. Although
immoveable, he was evidently a prey to profound emotions, for the lurid
light, playing upon his face, revealed the going and coming of painful
thoughts. Now and then he muttered something in a half articulate voice
which the black cat seemed to understand, for it purred awhile in its
circular nest, then rising, rounded its back, and looked up at its
master with tender inquiry in its green eyes. But Batoche had no thought
for Velours to-night. His mind was entirely occupied with little Blanche
who, having gone into Quebec upon some errands, as was her wont, had not
yet returned.
The wind moaned dismally around the little hut, at times giving it a
wrench as if it would topple it from its foundations. The spruces and
firs in the neighborhood creaked and tossed in the breath of the
tempest, and there was a dull, heavy roar from the head of the Falls.
Suddenly, amid all these sounds, the solitary old man's quick ear caught
a peculiar cry coming from the direction of the road. It was a sharp,
shrill bark, followed by a low whine. He sat up, bent his head and
listened again. Velour's fur stood on end, and its whisker bristled like
wire. The sound was heard again, made clearer and more striking by a
sudden rush of wind.
"A wolf, a wolf!" exclaimed Batoche, as he sprang from his seat, seized
his gun from its hooks and rushed out of the house. He did not hesitate
one moment as to the direction which he should take, but bent his steps
to the main road.
"Never. Oh, it can never be," he gasped, as he hurried along. "God would
never throw her into the wolf's embrace."--
He reached the road at last, and paused on its border to listen. He was
not disappointed, for within one hundred or two hundred yards of him, he
heard for the third time the ominous yelp of the wolf. Then all the
hunter showed itself in Batoche. He became, at once, a new man. The bent
form straightened, the languid limbs became nerved, the sinister eyes
shot fire, as if lighting the way before them, and the blank melancholy
features were turned and hardened into one single expression--watching.
In a moment he had determined the exact direction of the sound.
Cautiously he advanced from tree to tree, with inaudible footfall and
bated breath, until he reached the outskirts of a thicket. There he
expected to bring the wolf to bay. He peered long and attentively
through the branches.
"It is a den of wolves," he whispered to himself. "Not one pair of eyes,
but four or five pairs are glancing through the dark. I must make quick
work of the vermin. They must not be allowed to take their residences
for the winter so near my cabin."
Saying which he raised his carbine to his shoulder and pointed. His
finger was upon the trigger and was about to let go, when he felt the
barrel of his gun bent from its position and quietly but firmly
deflected towards the ground.
"Don't be a fool, Batoche. Keep your ammunition for other wolves than
these. You will soon need it all," said a voice in a low tone.
The hunter immediately recognized Barbin, a farmer of Beauport.
"What are you doing here?"
"No time for questions to-night. You will know later."
"And who are those in the thicket yonder?"
"My friends and yours."
Batoche shook his head dubiously, and muttered something about going
forward to satisfy himself by personal inspection. He was an enemy of
prowlers of all sorts, and must know with whom he had to deal before
abandoning the search.
A low whistle was heard and the thicket was instantaneously cleared.
Barbin tried to retain him, but the old man's temper rose, and he
snatched himself away.
"Don't be a fool, I say to you again, Batoche. You know who I am and you
must understand that I would not be out in such a place and on such a
night without necessary cause. These are my friends. For sufficient
reasons, they must not be known at present. Believe me, and don't
advance further. Besides they are now invisible."
"But why these strange cries?"
"The bark of the wolf is our rallying cry."
"The wolf!"
"Do you understand now?"
The old man passed his hand rapidly over his forehead and his eyes, then
grounding his musket, and seizing Barbin by the collar, he exclaimed:
"You don't mean it. I knew it would come, but did not expect it so soon.
The wolf, you said? Ah! sixteen years are a long time, but it passes,
Barbin. We are old now, yet not broken--"
He would have continued in this strain, but his interlocutor suddenly
stopped him.
"Yes, yes, Batoche, it is thus. Make yourself ready, as we are doing.
But I must go. My companions are waiting for me. We have important work
to do to-night."
"And I?" asked the old man reproachfully.
"Your work, Batoche, is not now, but later, not here, but elsewhere. Be
quiet; you have not been forgotten."
Barbin then disappeared in the wood, while Batoche slowly returned
toward the road, shaking his head, and saying to himself:
"The wolf! I knew it would come, but who would have thought it? Will my
violin sing the old song to me to-night? Will Clara glide under the
waterfall?"
X.
THE CASKET.
Little Blanche had not been forgotten all this time. The old man when he
reached the road, looked in the direction of Quebec for a moment, as if
hesitating whether to turn his steps in that direction. But he
apparently changed his mind, for he deliberately walked across the road,
and plunged into the narrow path leading to his cabin. When he arrived
there, he saw a horse and sleigh standing a little away from it under
the trees. He paid no attention to them, however, and walked up to the
door, which was opened for him by little Blanche. Bending down, he
kissed her on the forehead, laid his hand upon her hair, and said:
"It is well, child, but why so late?"
"I could not return earlier, grandpapa."
"Who detained you?"
She pointed to a muffled figure seated in a shaded angle of the room.
Still trailing his carbine in his left hand, Batoche walked up to it.
The figure rose, extended its hand and smiled sadly.
"You don't know me, Batoche?"
The old man looked into the face of the stranger for a long time, then
the light of recognition came and he exclaimed:
"I must be mistaken. It cannot be."
"Yes, it is I--"
"M. Belmont!"
"Yes, Batoche, we remember each other, though we have not met for some
years. You live the life of an anchorite here, never coming to the city,
and I remain in retirement, scarcely ever going from the city. We are
almost strangers, and yet we are friends. We _must_ be friends now, even
if we were not before."
The old man did not reply, but asked his visitor to sit down, while he,
having hung up his weapon, and drawn a chair to the fire-place, took a
seat beside him. The fire had burned low and both were seated in the
deep shadow. Blanche had offered to light a candle, but the men having
refused by a sign, the child sat down on the other side of the hearth
with the black cat circled on her lap.
"I brought back the child to you," said M. Belmont, by way of opening
the conversation. "She was in good hands with Pauline, her godmother,
but we knew that she never spent a night out of your hermitage, and that
you would be anxious if she did not return."
"Oh, Blanche is like her old grandfather. She knows every path in the
forest, every sign of the heavens, and no weather could prevent her from
finding her home. I have no fear that man or beast would hurt the little
creature. Indeed, she has the mark of Providence upon her and no harm
will come to her so long as my life is spared. There is a spirit in the
waterfall yonder, M. Belmont, which watches over her and the protection
is inviolable. But I thank you, sir, and your daughter for having taken
care of her."
"I kept her for another reason, Batoche," and M. Belmont looked
furtively at his companion, who returned his glance in the same dubious
fashion.
"It gave me the opportunity of paying you a visit which, for special
reasons, is of the greatest importance to me."