I.
ZULMA SARPY.
It was a damp bleak morning, and the snow was falling fast. Zulma Sarpy
sat in her bedroom, indolently stretched upon a rocking chair before a
glowing fire. She was attired in a white morning dress, or _peignoir_,
slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and revealing the glories of a snowy
columnar neck, while the hem, negligently raised, displayed two
beautiful slippered feet half buried in the plush of a scarlet cushion.
Her abundant yellow hair, thrown back in banks of gold over the forehead
and behind the rosy ears, was gathered in immense careless coils behind
her head and kept in position by a towering comb of pearl. Her two arms
were raised to the level of her head, and the two hands held on
languidly to the ivory knobs at the top of the chair. On the second
finger of the left hand was a diamond ring that flashed like a star. The
whole position of the lovely lounger brought out her grand bust into
full relief.
Beside her stood a little round table supported on three carven feet of
exquisite workmanship, and covered by a beautiful netting of crimson
lace. On the table was an open book and several trinkets of female
toilet. The table gave the key to the rest of the furniture of the
apartment, which was massive, highly wrought and of deep rich colors.
The tapestries of the wall were umber and gold; the hangings of the bed
and windows were a modulated purple. The room had evidently been
arranged with artistic design, and just such a one would be employed to
exhibit a statue of white marble to the best effect. Zulma Sarpy was
this living, breathing model, fair as a filament of summer gorse, and
statuesque in all her poses.
She had been educated in France, according to the custom of many of the
wealthy families of the Colony. Although confined for five years--from
the age of fourteen to that of nineteen--in the rigid and aristocratic
convent of Picpus, she had been enabled to see much of Paris life,
during the waning epoch of Louis XVI's reign and the times of morbid
fashionable excitement immediately preceding the great Revolution. Her
natural disposition, and the curiosity incident to her previous Colonial
training, led her to mingle with keen interest in all the forms of
French existence, and her character was so deeply impressed by it that
when she returned to her Canadian home, a few months before our
introduction to her, she was looked upon very much in the light of an
exotic. Yet was the heart of Zulma really unspoiled. Her instincts and
principles were true. She by no means regarded herself as out of place
in her native country, but, on the contrary, felt that she had a mission
to fill in it, and, having had more than one opportunity of honorable
alliance in France, preferred returning to Canada and spending her days
among her own people.
But she had to be taken as she was. If the good simple people around her
did not understand her ways, she could afford to leave them in their
wonderment without apology or explanation. The standing of her family
was so high, and her own spirit so independent, that she felt that she
could trace out her own course, without yielding to the narrow and
antiquated notions of those whose horizon for generations had never
extended beyond the blue line of the St. Lawrence.
Was she thinking of these very things this morning, as she lounged
before the fire? Perhaps so. But if she did, the thoughts had no
palpable effect upon her. Rather, we fancy, were her thoughts straying
upon the incident of three days before, when she had that rattling ride
with the handsome British Lieutenant and distanced him out of sight.
That glance in her great blue eyes was a reflection of the one which she
cast upon the youthful horseman through the little window squares of the
farmer's house. That tap of the slippered foot, on the edge of the
shining fender, was the gentle stimulant she administered to her pony's
flank as he leaped forward to win the race. That smothered, saucy laugh
which bubbled on her red, ripe lips was an echo of the peal which
greeted Hardinge when he pronounced the name of "Zulma," at the road
gate. And as she rolled her fine head slowly to and fro on the velvet
bosses of the back of her chair, was she not meditating some further
design on the heart of the loyal soldier? Conspiracies deeper than that,
designs of love that have rocked kingdoms to their foundation have been
formed by languid beauties, recumbent in the soft recesses of their easy
chairs.
Zulma had reached the culminating point of her revery and was gradually
gliding down the quiet declivities of reaction, when she was aroused by
a great uproar in the lower part of the house. She did not at first pay
much attention to it, but as the sound grew louder and she recognized
the voice of her father, speaking in loud tones of alarm, she sat up in
her chair and listened with concern. Presently some one rushed up the
stair and precipitated himself into the apartment, without so much as
rapping at the door. It was her brother, a youth of about her age, who
was at school at the Seminary of Quebec. He evidently had just arrived,
being still wrapped up in a blue flannel coat, trimmed with red cloth,
hood of the same material, buckskin leggings and rough hide boots. He
gave himself a vigorous shake, like a Newfoundland just emerged from the
water, and stamped upon the floor to throw off the particles of snow
adhering to his feet.
"What means all this disturbance, Eugene?" asked Zulma, holding out one
hand, and turning her head over the side of the chair, till her face
looked up to the ceiling.
"Oh, nothing, except that the rebels have come!" was the rejoinder, as
the youth walked up to his sister, and dropped globules of snow from his
gloves into her eyes.
"The what have come?"
"Why, the rebels."
"You mean the Americans."
"Americans or rebels,--what is the difference?"
"A world of difference. The Americans are not rebels. They are freemen,
battling for their rights."
"We have been taught at the Seminary to call them rebels."
"Then you have been taught wrong."
Zulma had risen out of her chair, and stood up in front of the fire,
with a glow of enthusiasm on her cheek. She would doubtless have
continued to deliver her ideas on the subject, but her young brother
evidently took no particular interest in it, and this circumstance,
which did not escape her quick eye, suddenly brought her back to more
practical questions.
"Where have the Americans arrived?"
"At Point Levis."
"When did they arrive?"
"This morning, early."
"Have you seen them?"
"They are quite visible on the heights, moving to and fro, and making
all kinds of signs toward the city. The whole of Quebec turned out to
look at them, the scholars of the Seminary along with the rest. After I
had seen the fellows, the Superior of the Seminary called me aside, and
directed me to take a sleigh, and come at once to notify you."
"Notify me?" said Zulma, arching her brows. "M. Le Superieur is very
amiable."
"Well, not you exactly," said Eugene, laughing, "but the family."
"Oh!" exclaimed she. "That is different. I never saw your Superior in my
life, and I do not know that he is aware of my humble existence."
"There you are mistaken. Our Superior knows all about you, your tricks,
your oddities, your French notions; and he often speaks to me of you. He
is especially aware that you are a rebel, and is much grieved thereat."
"Rebel! There is that hateful word again."
"I thought you liked it, when applied to yourself. You told me as much
the last time."
Zulma laughed and seemed propitiated, but she said no more. Her brother
then told her that their father was considerably agitated at the news.
He was particularly alarmed lest his son should be exposed by remaining
in the city, and thought of withdrawing him from the Seminary during the
impending siege. What did Zulma think of it?
"When do you return to Quebec?" was the abrupt query.
"I will return at once, and father is going with me."
"I will go too. I want to see these Americans for myself, and then I
will tell you what I think of your staying at the Seminary, or the
reverse. Go down stairs, while I make ready."
When Zulma was alone, it did not take her long to prepare herself for
the journey. All her languor had departed. The idle fooling in which she
had indulged during the previous hours was replaced by an earnest
activity in moving about her room. Her fingers were skilful and rapid in
the arrangement of her dress. In less than a quarter of an hour, she
walked up to the mirror for the last indispensable feminine glance. And
what a magnificent picture she was. In her sky-blue robe of velvet, with
pelisse of immaculate ermine, and hood of the same material, quilted
with azure silk, her beautiful face and queenly proportions were brought
out with ravishing effect. Encasing her hands in gauntlets, she went
down to meet her father and brother, and a moment later, the three rode
away at a brisk pace in the direction of Quebec.
II.
FAST AND LOOSE.
Pointe-aux-Trembles, or Aspen Point, in the vicinity of which stood the
mansion and the estates of the Sarpy family, is a little more than
twenty miles above Quebec, on the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The
road which connects it with the city follows pretty regularly the
sinuous line of the river. Over this route the sleigh bearing Sieur
Sarpy, with his daughter Zulma and his son Eugene, had travelled rapidly
and without interruption till it reached an elevated point, two or three
miles outside of Quebec, overlooking Wolfe's Cove and commanding a full
view of the Heights of Levis. Here Sieur Sarpy reined in his horse.
"Do you see them?" exclaimed Eugene, standing up in the sleigh, and
pointing across the river.
"I see nothing," responded his father. "The snow is blowing in our
faces, and my old eyes are very feeble."
Zulma remained buried in her buffalo robes and said nothing, but her
eyes were fixed intently at the distant summits, and her face bore an
expression of the most earnest interest.
"They are moving up and down," resumed Eugene, "as if busy storing their
provisions and ammunition. But they are very indistinct. I wonder if
they see us better than we see them?"
"They do," said his father. "The wind is behind them and they are not
incommoded by the drift."
After a pause, Eugene added:
"They seem to have no general uniform. They must belong to different
corps. Some have no uniform at all. Their appearance is not much that of
soldiers, and there are a good many small, young fellows among them."
"It must be the effect of refraction," said Zulma, in a low voice and
with a sneer. "But to me they seem like giants, towering on the heights
and stretching great arms toward us."
"In menace?" queried the Sieur with a strange affectionate look at his
daughter.
"That depends," she whispered smiling, but immediately subjoined:
"Let us drive on, papa."
A few minutes afterwards they reached the city. For some reason or other
Zulma declined accompanying her father and brother to the Seminary. The
pretext which she gave was that she had a few purchases to make in the
shops. But probably her real object was to visit some of her friends and
ascertain the real condition of things. Whether she did so or not we
need not stop to inquire, but an hour later she met Sieur Sarpy and
Eugene at the place agreed upon between them, to learn the decision that
they had come to.
"My fate is in your hands," said the youth opening the conversation in
high good humor. "You promised to give me your advice after you had set
your eyes on those gentlemen yonder, and now I have come to receive it."
"Yes," said the father, "we have determined to submit the matter to your
arbitration. Shall Eugene remain at the Seminary, or shall he return
with us?"
"What does M. Le Superieur say?" asked Zulma.
"He thoroughly appreciates the gravity of the situation. He believes
there will be a siege, perhaps a bloody one, certainly a long one. He
has strong opinions about the duty of every able-bodied man assisting in
the defence of the city. The young children he will send back to their
parents, but, at eighteen, Eugene ought to be accounted a man. He would
remain at the Seminary, one of the safest asylums in the city, always
under the eye of his tutors, and his studies would not be interrupted.
But he might do some minor military service all the same, and in the
event of a great emergency could help to swell the ranks of the troops.
The Superior thinks that practically he would be more secure within the
city than out of it. At home, he might be harassed by solicitations from
the enemy, and draw down upon us a great deal of annoyance."
At this Zulma smiled.
"And," added her father, "you know that, at my age, and with my
infirmities, I must have peace and quiet. From the beginning of these
hostilities, I have vowed neutrality, and I would not like to see it
disturbed."
Zulma's manner changed at these words. She looked at her father with a
mingled air of tenderness and determination, and said:
"What does Eugene think about it? Surely if he is old enough to fight,
he ought to be old enough to know his own mind and to be consulted."
The boy's answer was not very distinct. He did not seem to have any
opinions. His ideas were decidedly hazy about the King's right to his
allegiance, or the claims of the rebels to his sympathy. But there was
good blood in the fellow, and his uppermost thought evidently was that
it would be a grand thing for him to do a little fighting. Quebec was
his native city; everybody in it knew him, and he knew everybody.
Perhaps it would be as well if he joined in its defence.
"Then stay here," exclaimed Zulma peremptorily.
She added that she would take proper care of her father, and that Eugene
need have no solicitude on that score. In the meantime, things had not
come to the worse; perhaps, it would take even weeks before the siege
commenced, and they would have ample time to communicate with each other
again.
After this conference, Eugene accompanied his father and sister to the
street where their sleigh awaited them. The three were engaged in a few
parting words, when a young British officer passed hurriedly along. He
would certainly have gone on without noticing them, had not one of
Zulma's gauntlets fallen on the side-path at his feet. Was it accidental
or was it a challenge? Who shall tell? But whatever it was, the officer
stooped immediately for the glove, and handed it to the owner with a
profound salutation. Roderick Hardinge then recognized the beautiful
amazon.
There was time for the interchange of only a few words between them.
"Lieutenant," said Zulma, with that bright laugh which had so enchanted
Roderick the first time he heard it, "I have the honor of presenting to
you a loyal soldier in the person of my brother, who has just decided
upon entering the service in defence of the city."
"I am proud to hear that. Eugene and I are old friends, and I am glad to
know that we shall now be brothers in arms."
"But, Lieutenant," continued Zulma, "you will perhaps be surprised to
learn that he has acted thus at my recommendation."
"Indeed! That is certainly an agreeable surprise. I may then be
justified in hoping that you too, mademoiselle, will take part in our
cause."
"That is quite a different matter. Before I take, I must be taken, you
know," with another merry laugh.
"You mean that before we take you----."
"You must catch me."
"I own that is hard to do, considering my first experience, but it will
be done all the same."
"Never!" exclaimed Zulma, with a flush on her cheek.
"I repeat it--and mark me--it _shall_ be done."
And after a little more pleasantry, the party separated.
On their way homeward, Sieur Sarpy lightly questioned his daughter. He
knew the strength of her character, the high metal of her temper. Her
words with Hardinge, all playful as they appeared on the surface, had,
he was certain, a deeper significance. But this wonderful girl was
dearly affectionate, in the midst of all her follies, and she would not
grieve her father by telling him the secret of the thoughts which had
moved her bosom since the morning. He had pleaded for quietude during
the unquiet days that were coming. She was resolved he should have it in
so far as it depended upon her. At least it was much too early in the
day to vex his mind with forebodings. She therefore comforted and calmed
him by words of assurance, and, when he crossed his threshold, that
evening, the lonely old man felt that he was indeed secure under the
protection of his daughter.
III.
THE SHEET-IRON MEN.
The next morning the snowfall had ceased, and although the sky remained
lowering, there was no sign of a storm. Indeed, it was still too early
in the season for frequent or abundant snow. The climate of Canada has
this peculiarity which meteorologists have failed to explain--that
whereas, in other parts of the continent, such as the north-west, and
even so far down the Mississippi Valley as St. Louis, the winter
temperature has moderated with the clearing of the forests and the
cultivation of the soil, in Canada it remains precisely the same as it
was two and three hundred years since. A comparison of the daily
registers kept at present with those diurnally consigned in the
Relations of the Jesuits, shows--as the historian Ferland tells
us--that, day for day and month for month, the indications of the
thermometer in 1876, for instance, tally with those of 1776. At the
present time, in Canada, although the cold really begins to be felt in
the beginning of November, the winter is not regarded as having finally
set in till the 25th of the month. That is known as St. Catharine's day,
and its peculiar celebration will be described further on, being
connected with one of the episodes of our story. The last month of the
autumn of 1775 may therefore be supposed to have followed the general
rule. Indeed, we know from the records that it was, if any thing, milder
than usual, and that the winter was uncommonly tardy, a vessel having
sailed from Quebec for Europe as late as the 31st December.
As we have said, the weather, on the particular morning on which we
write, was cold but calm. The snow lay crisp and hard upon the level
places; in the hollows and gorges it was piled in light fleecy banks.
The atmosphere was of that quality that, although it had a sting when
first it was faced, so soon as the ears, hands, cheeks, and other
exposed parts got used to it, the whole system felt a pleasureable glow
of buoyancy. It was capital weather to work in, and so a number of
sturdy farmer's wives, residing on the north bank, a little above
Quebec, gathered at the river to do their washing. They had on immense
quilted mob-caps, with large outstanding ears, petticoats of thick blue
or purple woollen, the work of their own hands, heavy stockings to
match, and pattens lined with flannel. A great double handkerchief, of
flowery design, was set upon their broad shoulders, covering their necks
and crossed over their voluminous bosoms; but there was free play left
to the arms, which flushed with rosy color under the influence of work
and weather. A broad board fastened to the bank, jutted out five or six
feet into the water, and was supported there at a proper level by a
solid trestle. A boat was attached to this primitive jetty, and there
was besides a small building of rude timber, which served for the women
to boil their clothes in, or hang them up to dry.
Four women were working together along one plank, and of course there
was continuous talk among them. But whenever the conversation became
more than usually animated, or they would fall to disagreeing among
themselves, they would call out to their companions who were similarly
working and talking some yards away to the right and left.
One lively old girl, who was striking her pallet so hard on a bombed
bundle of yellowish clothes, that meshes of brown hair broke from under
her cap and fluttered on her forehead, seemed to be the oracle of the
party.
"Perhaps this will be the last time we shall wash clothes here. Those
are terrible fellows who have come. They call them Bastonnais. They come
from very far, and are very bad men. They will burn our houses and
barns. They will empty our cellars and granaries. I saw M. le Curé
yesterday, and he told me that we will have to shut ourselves up, and
not show our faces, because ... you know."
"Pshaw, Josephine," said another, "it will not be so bad as that. My old
man says that they are like other men. I'm not afraid. I will talk to
them. I am sure there are some pretty fellows among them."
"Marguerite is always a coquette," continued a third. "But she will have
no chance. These strangers are poor, lean, broken-down, and badly
dressed. They are not soldiers at all, like the men at the citadel. No
lace, no gold tape, no epaulettes, no feathers in their hats. The
officers have no swords, and many of the soldiers are without muskets.
Men like that I would not allow to approach me, and if they come to our
house, I will dance them out with this paddle."
Saying which, the speaker fell to, beating her clothes with renewed
vigor.
The youngest and prettiest of the four women having listened to all
this, straightened herself up from her tub, and placing her arms akimbo,
said:
"Pierriche"--meaning her husband--"was in the city all yesterday
afternoon. You know Pierriche is a great talker, and likes to know all
the news. Every time he goes to the city he has enough to talk about for
a week afterwards. Well, do you know what he says? He is such a hoaxer,
such a _blagueur_, that I did not believe him, and hardly believe him
now, but he swore to me that it was true."
"What was it?" asked her three companions simultaneously.
"Well, he said that after he had been in the city a little while, and
sold what was in his sleigh, he thought he would take a stroll into
Lower Town. There he met a lot of his friends, and one of his cousins
from Levis. And they told him...."
"What did they tell him?" asked the three women, who had now abandoned
their work and gathered around the speaker.
"Well, you know all the boats were taken away from the other side of the
river, but these men were so frightened that they ran down the bank till
they came opposite the Isle of Orleans. Then making a kind of raft with
a few logs they got over to the Island. There they found boats which
took them to the city. And they immediately spread the news of what they
had seen."
"What had they seen?" queried the excited women. "You are provoking,
Matilde, with your long story."
"You will not believe me."
"I'll believe everything," said one.
"I'll believe nothing," said another.
"Never mind what we will believe. Only tell us what it is," said the
third.
"Well, they told Pierriche that these Bastonnais are terrible men, tall
and strong. They suffer neither cold nor heat. Nothing can hurt them,
neither powder, nor ball."
"And why not?"
"Because...."
Here the pretty housewife paused suddenly, and with a look of mingled
fear and surprise, pointed to the river. Her companions turned and saw a
light birch-bark canoe, shooting out from the opposite shore and
directed for mid-stream. Three men were in it.
"There!" said the first speaker. "Just what Pierriche said. Look at
them. Look especially at that tall man sitting in the stern. The boat is
approaching very quick. See, he raises his cap and salutes us."
"What a handsome fellow," said Marguerite.
"Yes, but look at his dress and that of his companions," exclaimed the
others.
"Just what Perriche said," repeated the first.
"They are devils, not men," cried out a second.
"Just what Pierriche said. They are clad in sheet-iron."
"Yes, that is true. Sheet-iron men!"
And the frightened women, leaving the clothes on the jetty, fled
precipitately up the bank.
The boat described a wide semi-circle in the river, and the young man
sitting at the stern swept the north shore with a field glass. It was
Cary Singleton, an officer of Morgan's riflemen, one of the chief corps
of Arnold's army. He had been sent to reconnoitre.
Morgan's riflemen were all tall, stalwart men from Virginia and
Maryland, and they were dressed in tunics of grey unbleached linen. The
French would say _vêtus de toile_. But the panic of their sudden
arrival, at Levis, changed _toile_ into _tôle_, and the whole country
side rang with the cry of "sheet-iron men." The amusing incident is
historic.
IV.
BIRCH AND MAPLE.
Arnold's men stood like a spectral army on the Heights of Levis, but
unlike spectres they did not vanish in the full glare of the light.
After gazing their fill upon the renowned city which they had come so
far to see--its beetling citadel, its winding walls, its massive gates,
the peaked roofs of its houses, the tall steeples of its churches, the
graceful campaniles of its numerous convents--they set actively to the
work of attack which remained as the culmination of their heroic march
through the wilderness. The enchantment of distance had now vanished,
and the reality of vision was before them. Arnold had the quick insight
of the born commander. He understood that he could accomplish nothing
from Levis. The broad St. Lawrence rushed by him with a sullen moan of
warning, isolating him effectually from Quebec. He had no artillery.
There were no boats. An ice-bridge was out of the question for at least
two months to come. And yet he saw his way clear. He must cross to the
north shore. He must attack Quebec. The prize was worth even a desperate
attempt. If he took Quebec before Montgomery joined him, his name would
be immortalized. He would rank with Wolfe; indeed, considering the
exiguity of his means, his feat would surpass that of Wolfe. The capture
of Montreal would be glory enough for Montgomery. That of Quebec
belonged of right to Benedict Arnold. If there were risks, there were
also chances. The regulars were away. The walls were manned only by raw
militia. Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé was no soldier. The French
inhabitants of the city were at least apathetic Many of the English
residents were positively the friends of the Continental cause.
Yes, Arnold must cross the river, and that speedily. On the very
afternoon of his arrival, he ordered Morgan, the commander of the rifle
corps, to prepare a number of canoes without delay. With the assistance
of some Indians who were hanging around the camp in quest of fire-water
and other booty, a squad of Morgan's men, under the command of Cary
Singleton, repaired to the neighboring woods skirting the river, and
there proceeded to strip the oldest and girthiest birch trees. Autumn is
not so favorable a time as spring for the stripping and preparing of
birch bark, but the result is satisfactory enough provided the frost has
not penetrated too deep into the heart of the tree.
The maple and the birch are the kings of the Canadian forest. Two
strong, tall, unbending trees, they stand as fit pillars to the entrance
of a boreal climate. For fuel they rank first on the market of hard
woods, and each has its special advantage. The maple is rather more
appreciated for its heating properties; the birch is decidedly more
valuable for its ash. The ash of the birch is a fair thing to see, white
as snow and soft under the touch as flour. The leaf of the maple and
bark of the birch are national emblems in Canada, and it is well that
they should be, for they are both associated with the history of the
country, and enter largely into its domestic comforts. The annals of New
France may be compared to an album of maple leaves bound in a scroll of
birchen bark, and a contemporary writer in Quebec has adopted the idea
for the title of one of his works. The solid beams of the Canadian house
are hewn out of columns of birch, as sound if not so fragrant as the
cedar of Lebanon, and the furniture of the Canadian home is wrought of
bird-eye maple, susceptible of the velvetest polish, and more beautiful,
because more variagated, than walnut or mahogany.
Every season of the year has its peculiar amusements, and among a people
of primitive habits, these amusements are gone through with a kind of
religious observance. There is the hay-time in summer when, under the
sultry sky, and amid the strong scents of the hardier field-flowers, the
huge wain is driven from the stubble field into the shadows of the
impending woods, and around it the workers sing and make merry in token
of joy for the abundant yield of sweet grass that shall fatten the kine
in the drear barren months of snow. The young men rest on their scythes,
that glisten like Turkish sabres, and, from under their broad-brimmed
hats of straw, the town girls smile, as they tress garlands of garish
flowers to bind the last and the largest of the sheaves.
In autumn, there is the season of the harvest with its traditional
ceremonies of a religious or convivial nature. The granary is decorated
up to the roof in hangings of odorous verdure, and the barn floor is
cleared for the dance of the weary feet that have long toiled in the
five acre. Under the crescent moon, in those mild September evenings,
the old superstitions of the Saxon Druids are repeated, while many a
beautiful Norma, crowned with vervain and mistletoe, a gleaming sickle
in her hand, and her eyes filled with the prophetic light of love,
reigns a queen over the honest loving hearts of swains who lay at her
feet the brightest wisps of the upland. And the humble Ruth is there,
too, with her sweet patient face, and her timid look fixed on the
generous Boaz who allowed her to pick the gleanings of his golden corn.
Winter also has its feasts and its holidays. No where better than in
arctic climates are these celebrated by persons of every age and sex.
There are innumerable games and pastimes around the fire, where the
wildest merriment drives away the tedium of the long wintry night.
Stories are told, songs are sung, tricks are played. There is dancing in
the lighted hall; there is love making in the dark corners; and to crown
the festival there is a sleigh-ride under the cold moon, when the music
of the bells, the tramping of the hoofs, the shouts of the drivers, and
the shrill whistle of the Northern blast, are to the buoyant spirits of
the young promenaders like draughts of exhilarating wine.
In Canada, all these pleasant rural ceremonies of the old countries are
well preserved. And it is the only portion of this continent where they
are to be met with.
The American who has read of them, but has never witnessed them in
Europe, can find them faithfully reproduced in Canada.
But in spring, Canadians have a pastime peculiar to themselves,
furnished by their own climate. It is the season of sugar-making. At the
period in which the events of our story occurred, the cultivation of the
maple was much more extensive than now, but even at present it is
sufficiently well maintained to enable a traveller to study all its
picturesqueness and charm. In Vermont, New Hampshire, Michigan and
Wisconsin, the maple is cultivated, but in such a matter-of-fact,
mercantile fashion, that there is no rural poetry in the process.
The maples stand in an area of half an acre. Each one is notched at the
height of about a foot or a foot and a half from the ground. A piece of
shingle is fastened in the lips of the wound, at an angle of forty-five,
and down this trickle the sweet waters in a trough set at the foot of
each tree. There stand the forest wives distilling their milk, while the
white sunlight rests on their silver trunks and the soft winds of March
dally with their leafless branches. The sugarman has his eye fixed on
each of them, and as fast as the urns are filled, he empties them into a
large vessel preparatory to boiling. In an open space, towards the
centre of the area, is a huge cauldron dangling from a hob, and under it
crackles a fire of pine and tamarac. At a little distance from this
stands the cabin of the proprietor, where are stowed away all the
utensils necessary for sugar-making. There too his hammock swings, for
during the whole period when the maple bleeds, he lives like an Indian
in the forest.
Presently the sound of voices is heard coming up the slopes, and in a
short time the whole party that has been invited to the sugar-festival
finds itself collected under the maples. They bring with them baskets of
provisions, hams and shoulders, eggs, and the indispensable allowance of
strong waters.
"The first thing to be done, my friends," cries the host to his guests,
"is to drink the health of the forest wives in a draught of maple
water."
And immediately tin cups are applied to the notches. When they are
filled, the toast is drunk with all the honors.
"Now," resumes the host, "come up to the cauldron and get your share of
the syrup."
One by one, the guests approach the huge vessel where the maple water is
boiling and bubbling. Each one holds in his hand a wooden basin filled
with fresh clean snow, and into that the hospitable host ladles out the
golden stream. With the accompaniment of new bread, this dish is
delicious, for it is peculiar to the maple sugar and syrup that they do
not satiate, much less nauseate, as other saccharine compositions do.
After this preliminary repast, the guests indulge in various amusements.
The older folks sit together at the cabin door, chatting of their
youthful frolics in former sugar-making days, while the young people
sing, flirt, promenade and enjoy themselves as only the young know how.
Some of the more active go about gathering dry branches and wood to keep
up the fire, and others saunter a little out of sight on a visit to the
demijohns which they have hidden behind the rocks.
After a time, the host gives the signal for taffy-making. This part of
the fun is reserved for the girls. They throw aside their mantles, push
back their hoods, tuck up their sleeves and plunge their white fingers
into the rapidly cooling masses of syrup. The mechanical process of
drawing the arms backwards and forwards is in itself an uninteresting
occupation, but somehow under these Canadian maples, in that bracing
mountain atmosphere, and amid all the accessories of this peculiar
vernal pic-nic, taffy-making is an exhilarating, picturesque amusement.
The girls get ruddy with the exertion; they pant, they strain, they duck
their heads when their lovers creep behind to steal a kiss, or they run
after the shameless robber and slap his naughty cheeks with their sticky
palms. Under the rapid kneading the dark syrup becomes glossier, then it
reddens, next it grows a golden hue, till finally it gets whiter and
whiter, thinner and thinner, and the taffy is finished.
Towards the middle of the afternoon, the principal repast takes place.
All the provisions which the guests have brought are produced and spread
on a long table prepared for the purpose. Maple water and maple sugar
are the accompaniments of every dish. When all the meats have been
discussed, the feast winds up by the celebrated maple omelet. Whatever
Soyer or Brillat Savarin might say, it is a pleasant dish, though too
rich to be partaken of copiously, and according to every hygienic
principle, very apt to be difficult of digestion. It consists of eggs
pretty well boiled and broken into maple syrup, slightly diluted and
piping hot. After a meal of this kind, exercise is indispensable, and it
is the custom to get up a series of dances until the hour of breaking
up.
"Friends," exclaims the host, when they are about to retire from the
table, "I am glad to find that you have done justice to my syrup and
sugar. It is the best sign that they were good. It keeps up the
reputation of my sugary. Try to retain the taste of them till next year,
when I hope we shall all meet again under these same trees."
A round of applause follows these words, and the whole company breaks
out into hunting songs in honor of the host.
"Now," resumes he, "we must by all means have a dance. I never let my
friends go without at least one, and I intend to join in the first
myself. Come, hurry up, one and all. I see a suspicious cloud or two in
the sky yonder, and we may possibly have a storm before the day is
over."
A fiddler is soon found and the dance is organized. He leans his left
cheek lovingly on his instrument, and has just run his bow across the
discordant strings, when suddenly a loud crash is heard in the gorges of
the mountain. It is the roar of the storm. The maple tops writhe and
twist in the sweep of the winds that come up in eddies from the river
far beneath. The sky is suddenly darkened. The snow falls thick and
fast. These portents are sufficiently significant to startle the whole
party. The dance is broken up and every one prepares to depart as fast
as he can.
Cary Singleton and his men had a sterner duty to perform by the maple
trees. They cut them down and of the trunks constructed a number of
rafts wherewith to transport the baggage and provisions of the army
across the St. Lawrence.
At the same time, the Indians of the party were detailed to build
birch-bark canoes. With their long knives they swept around the slender
trunks, making an incision as regular and precise as any surgeon might
have done on a human limb destined to amputation. The first circle was
made about one foot from the ground, the other about three feet from the
branches where the tree began to taper. This was to secure slips of
about equal length. They then ran down their knives longitudinally from
the edge of one circle to the edge of the other circle, making four or
five sections according to the size of the tree. This was to obtain
slips of about equal breadth. They next inserted the point of their
knives under the layer of bark, and with rapid action of the arm pulled
off slip after slip. As these slips fell upon the ground they rolled up
in scrolls, but other Indians as quickly unrolled them, stitched them
together with light thongs of moose or buckskin, and sharpened them at
the two extremities. In this way, three men could build a good sized
canoe, within two hours. There remained only the process of drying which
was not indispensable indeed, but contributed to the lightness and
safety of the craft.
So soon as the first canoe was made, Cary Singleton launched it, and,
accompanied by two men, made the reconnoissance which so much frightened
the gossipping laundresses. He did not approach the north shore as near
as he had intended, for fear that the women might give the alarm and
betray his design, but he saw enough through his glass to enable him to
report that the secluded basin, sheltered by dense trees, and known as
Wolfe's Cove, would be a favorable place for the landing of the invading
army. Accordingly, after three days devoted to the repose of his troops,
and the replenishing of his stores from the neighboring farm houses,
Arnold, on the night of the 13th November, undertook to cross the St.
Lawrence. He was favored by darkness and a storm, and from ten in the
evening till four in the morning, by the aid of thirty birch-bark canoes
and a few rafts, he was engaged in the hazardous work. Backwards and
forwards the fragile vessels plied silently over the broad bosom of the
river, bearing a freight of taciturn armed men, on the point of whose
muskets literally trembled the fate of Canada. As the morning dawned the
whole of the Continental army, with the exception of 160 men who were
left at Levis, was safe in the recess of Wolfe's Cove, and Arnold had
won another stake in the lottery of war.
V.
ON THE RAMPARTS.
Very early that same morning, Zulma Sarpy drove into Quebec, accompanied
by a single servant. As she neared the city, she caught a glimpse of the
rebel troops surging up the gorge of Wolfe's Cove and forming in groups
on the fringe of the skirting wood. They could not as yet be seen from
the city, although the authorities had, an hour or two previously, been
apprised of their landing. The sight wonderfully exhilarated the girl.
She was not astonished, much less intimidated by the warlike view.
Rather did she feel a thrill of enthusiasm, and a wild fancy shot
through her mind that she too would like to join in the martial display.
She stopped her horse for a moment to make sure that her eyes were not
betraying her, and when she was satisfied that the men in the distance
were really Continentals, she snapped her whip and drove rapidly into
Quebec, in order to enjoy the malicious pleasure of being the first to
communicate the fact to her friends.
In that anticipation she was not disappointed. Her story at first was
not credited, because a glance at the Heights of Levis, across the
river, revealed the presence of troops there. But when she insisted and
detailed all the circumstances, the news spread with rapidity. From one
street it passed into another; from Upper Town it flew into Lower Town,
and according as the news was confirmed by other persons coming into the
city, the people grew wild with excitement and crowded to the ramparts
to satisfy themselves.
Pauline Belmont had not been as intimate as she might have been with
Zulma Sarpy, both because they had been separated for many years during
the school period, and because their characters did not exactly match.
The timid, retiring, essentially domestic disposition of the one could
not move on the same planes with the dashing, fearless, showy mood of
the other. Intellectually they were not equals either. Pauline's mind
was almost purely receptive and her range of inquiry limited indeed.
Zulma's mind was buoyant with spontaneity, and there was a quality of
aggressive origination in it which scattered all conventionalities as
splinters before it. Pauline was likely to lean upon Zulma, listen with
admiration to her brilliant talk, ask her advice and then smile, fearing
to act upon it. Zulma, on the other hand, was not inclined to claim or
exercise patronage. She was actually too independent for that, and in
regard to Pauline, more particularly, she rather preferred bending as
much as she could to her level. In the few months after Zulma's return
from France, however, the girls had frequently met, and they would have
liked to see more of each other, had they not both been retained a great
deal at home by the seclusion of M. Belmont and the infirmities of Sieur
Sarpy respectively.
On the present occasion Pauline was one of the friends upon whom Zulma
called, and naturally her first business was to acquaint her with the
landing of the Continentals. She was surprised to find that the
intelligence caused a deathly pallor to spread over the features of her
companion.
"The siege will begin in earnest, and we shall be cut off from all the
world," murmured Pauline. "And my father has not yet returned."
"Is he outside of the city?" asked Zulma.
"Yes. He went away yesterday, promising to return early this morning.
His delay did not alarm me, but now from what you tell me, I fear he may
get into trouble."
"Do not fret, my dear. It will take several days before the city is
invested, and your father's return will not be interfered with. Besides,
he is not a militant, I believe."
Pauline drew a sigh, but said nothing. Zulma resumed:
"I am sure he is neutral like my father, and such will not be annoyed."
"I wish I could be sure of that, but----," and Pauline suddenly checked
herself as if fearful of giving expression to her suspicions.
"You must remember, my dear, that these Americans are not so black as
they are painted. They are men like others, and true soldiers are always
merciful," added Zulma.
"Indeed! Do you think so? I hardly know what to say about them. Father
says very little of late, but there is a friend of ours who speaks of
them in terms of hostility."
"He must be an ultra loyalist."
"He is a British officer."
"A British officer? Why, Pauline, I thought your father kept aloof from
British officials."
"Oh, but this one is really a Canadian and speaks French like
ourselves," said Pauline, blushing.
"That makes all the difference," replied Zulma, with a pleasant laugh
that was slightly tinged with sarcasm. "I declare I should like to know
this specimen."
"You know him, dear."
"Impossible!"
"He has spoken to me of you."
"Indeed!"
"And is a great admirer of yours."
"You mock me!"
"You can't guess who it is?"
And little Pauline brightened up with childish glee at having gained
this slight advantage over her companion.
"You puzzle and excite me, darling. I can't guess. Tell me who it is."
"Lieutenant Hardinge!"
"Lieutenant Hardinge?"
Why was the cheek of Zulma suddenly touched with flame? Why did her blue
eyes darken as in a lurid shadow? And her lips--why did they contract
into marble whiteness, without the power of articulation? There was a
pause of deep solemnity. To Pauline it was perplexing. She feared that
she had said too much, both for her own sake and that of her friend. But
she was soon relieved of her misgivings by the touch of Zulma's hand
laid upon hers, and a deep, penetrating look, which showed, better than
any words, that the latter understood all, and generously sympathized
with her friend.
"Of course," she said with a laugh, "if you borrow your ideas from
Lieutenant Hardinge, you cannot have much of an opinion of the
Americans, and I suppose it would be loss of time for me to controvert
that opinion."
"Fortunately the result of the war does not depend on the notions of two
girls like ourselves," retorted Pauline, with an argumentative spirit
which was quite foreign to her, and which made her companion laugh
again.
"Never mind," said Zulma. "Let us do something more womanly. Let us go
and look at these new soldiers."
"Very well, and I may hear something of my father on the way."
They stepped out of the house and joined a crowd of men, women and
children bending their steps to the ramparts. When they reached the
walls, they found them already lined with people talking and
gesticulating in the most excited manner. Some spoke aloud, some shouted
at the top of their lungs, some waved their hats, some fluttered their
handkerchiefs attached to the end of their walking sticks, like flags,
and some openly beckoned a welcome to the rebel host. There stood
Arnold's army spread out before them, deployed into a loose double
column on the Plains of Abraham. They had brushed their clothes,
furbished their arms, and put on the best possible appearance. They were
not more than seven hundred in number, but by a judicious evolution of
the wings were made to appear more numerous. Some of the officers looked
very smart, having donned the full-dress uniforms which had not been
used since the expedition left Cambridge two months previously.
Pauline and Zulma occupied a favorable position in the midst of a large
group where they could see everything and hear all the commentaries of
the crowd.
"Why don't the Bastonnais come on?" said an old Frenchman, dashing his
blue woollen bonnet to one side of his forehead. "They are imbeciles.
They don't understand their chance."
"You are right," answered another old man near him. "If the rebel
General only knew it, the gates are not properly manned, and the
stockades only half made up. He could rush in and carry the city by a
_coup de main_."
This conversation was striking, and later in life Zulma used to say that
it expressed what was true. If Arnold had made a dash upon Quebec that
November morning, it is asserted by Sanguinet and others, that he would
have carried it. Thus would he have been immortalized, and the world
would have been spared the most dastardly traitor of modern times.
The foregoing dialogue took place to the right of Zulma and Pauline. The
following was held on their left, between two Englishmen--a
tavern-keeper and a sailor.
"If our commander made an attack on these ragamuffins he would sweep
them into the St. Lawrence," said the sailor.
"Or capture the most of them," said the tavern-keeper.
Here was a contrary opinion to the foregoing, and yet it too has been
expressed by subsequent historians. The Quebec garrison was fifteen
hundred strong, and well supplied with arms and ammunition. The American
army was only half that number, ill accoutred and poorly armed. The
British had a base of operations and a place of retreat in Quebec. The
Continentals had no line of escape but the broad St. Lawrence and a few
birch-bark canoes which a dozen torches could have destroyed. Who knows?
A great opportunity of fame was perhaps lost that day.
"I wish they would sally forth against the Americans," said Zulma to
Pauline. "But the shadow of Montcalm is upon them. Had the Marquis
remained behind his intrenchments, we should never have been conquered
by the English. If the English would now only follow his bad example."
And she laughed heartily.
VI.
THE FLAG OF TRUCE.
Suddenly a singular movement was observed among the American troops, and
silence fell upon the eager multitudes who lined the ramparts. The
principal rebel officers were seen grouped together in consultation.
From their gestures it was evident that a matter of grave importance was
argued, and that there was far from being a harmonious counsel. In the
centre of the party stood a short, stout man, of florid complexion and
apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was advocating his views
with vigor, sometimes with a persuasive smile, sometimes with angry
words. This was Arnold. A few of the officers listened in silence;
others walked away with a scowl of derision and contempt on their faces.
Finally, the interview closed, the troops fell back a little along the
whole line, and all seemed intent upon watching the important event
which was about to follow.
A trumpeter stepped forward, followed by a tall young officer dressed in
the uniform of a rifleman. Both gave the salute to Arnold and received
their instructions from him in a low voice. The young officer took from
his commander a sealed despatch, and, drawing his sword, attached to it
a white handkerchief.
The sight of this handkerchief explained the whole movement.
"A summons to surrender!" was the word that passed along the Continental
ranks, and nearly everybody laughed. The officers could scarcely conceal
their disgust, and some of them loudly protested against being compelled
to witness the humiliation which they were certain was about to ensue.
"A flag of truce!" exclaimed the crowds on the ramparts of the city, and
their curiosity was excited as to the purport of the contemplated
parley. It is safe to say that no one suspected a demand for
capitulation, as nothing could appear more ridiculous under the
circumstances.
The officer with the trumpeter advanced rapidly over the vacant ground
which lay between their line of battle and the walls of Quebec. At
stated intervals, according to the rules of the service, the trumpet was
sounded, but no response came from the city. Finally the two envoys
stopped and stood in full view of the two camps.
"What a handsome fellow it is," said Zulma to Pauline.
The girls were in an excellent position for observing all that took
place, and were so interested that even the timid Pauline forgot her
anxieties about her father.
"Do you mean the trumpeter?"
"Oh, he is well enough. But I mean the officer who bears the flag."
The two friends were discussing this point when their attention was
arrested by a movement at the gate almost beneath them. A British
officer walked out alone and went direct to the flag-bearer.
"It cannot be," exclaimed Pauline.
"Yes, it is no other," replied Zulma with a laugh.
"Roderick!"
"Yes, and no better choice could have been made. A handsome loyalist
against a handsome rebel. But there is a disparity of age."
"Hardly."
"I beg your pardon. Our tall, beautiful rebel is hardly twenty-one, I am
sure, while your Lieutenant, Pauline, is more mature."
It was indeed Roderick Hardinge who had been commissioned to go forward
and meet the American messenger. As he neared him, the two young
officers bowed politely to each other and exchanged the military salute.
Then the following brief conversation took place, as learned afterwards
from the lips of the participants themselves.
"I presume, sir, that you have been detailed to meet me here," said the
Continental.
"I have that honor, sir," responded Roderick.
"And to receive my message."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I regret to say that I have instructions
_not_ to receive any message whatever."
"But Colonel Arnold demands a parley according to the usages of war."
"I am sorry, sir, that I cannot argue the point. My orders are to inform
you that the commandant of the garrison of Quebec does not desire to
have any communication with the commander of the Continental force.
"But, sir, this----"
"Excuse me, we are both soldiers. We have done our duty and I beg to
salute you."
Lieutenant Hardinge bowed and retreated a step or two. The flag-bearer
looked perplexed for a moment at this turn of affairs, but recovering
his self-possession, returned the bow, wheeled about, and, followed by
the trumpeter, started at long strides over the plain.
An universal tumult arose. Both parties were aroused to the highest
pitch of excitement. The Americans, seeing the insult which had been
offered to their messenger, could scarcely contain themselves within the
ranks. The citizens on the wall sent up cheer after cheer, and the
ladies fluttered their handkerchiefs. Zulma was an exception. She had no
pleasure to manifest, but the contrary. She resented the affront made to
the handsome young rebel, and had immediate occasion to show her
feeling. As Roderick Hardinge turned to retrace his steps toward the
gate, he glanced upward at the dense line of spectators on the
ramparts, and caught sight of Pauline and Zulma. He gave them both a
smiling look of recognition. Pauline returned it with ardent eye and an
animated face that betokened the joy and pride she felt in the service
which her friend was called upon to perform. Zulma affected not to see
Hardinge and looked away over to the American side with an ostentatious
air of offence.
Presently there was the report of a fire-arm, and a puff of pale blue
smoke floated over the edge of the wall. If there was excitement before,
there was uproar and consternation now. An outrage had been committed.
Some one in Quebec had fired on the flag of truce. Pauline uttered a
shrill cry and hid her face in her hands.
"What has happened?" she asked. "Is the battle going to begin? Let us
hasten away. And Roderick--where is he?"
"Safe within the gate," exclaimed Zulma, bending forward, with a keen
nervous movement, and pointing in front of her. "But the American is not
so safe. He has been fired at. The laws of war have been violated. See,
he is the only one who is calm. He walks proudly along, without even
turning his head. There is the hero. He is shot at as if he were a dog,
in violation of all civilized usages. Yet he is nobler than any of those
who pretend to regard the Americans as unworthy of human treatment."
The Americans could hardly maintain their discipline. If the troops had
been allowed their way, they would have rushed headlong against the
walls to avenge the insult. But fortunately the officers succeeded in
calming them. The shot had not been repeated. It was perhaps an
accident, or it had been fired by some militiamen without orders. The
flag-bearer was not injured, neither was the trumpeter.
The army contented itself with a last yell of defiance, and fell back,
partially deploying to the left so as to occupy the main road leading
from the country to the city. Arnold was bitterly disappointed. His
summons for surrender was a characteristic bit of impudence, as we have
seen, not so much on account of the summons itself, as of the threats
and other terms of rhodomontade in which it was couched. Still it might
have succeeded as a mere ruse of war. That it did not succeed was matter
for profound chagrin, and the circumstances of insult and humiliation by
which the refusal was accompanied added poignancy to the pain.
On the other hand, the citizens of Quebec were jubilant. It was a first
trial of strength and the garrison had not failed. It was the first time
the terrible Bastonnais were seen by the inhabitants, and they did not
inspire any terror. Roderick Hardinge pretty well interpreted the
general feeling in a conversation which he held that same afternoon with
Pauline and Zulma. The latter had argued that the flag of truce should
have been received. Roderick replied that he had, of course, no
explanations to give in regard to the order of his superiors, but
judging for himself he would say that any other commander except Arnold
might perhaps have deserved more consideration. But Arnold was well
known in the city. He had often come to Quebec from New England to buy
horses for the West Indies trade in which he was engaged. Indeed he was
nothing better than a Horse Jockey, with all the swagger, vulgarity and
bounce appertaining to stablemen. He had been appointed to head this
expedition, chiefly because of his local knowledge of the country. He
boasted that he had friends in Quebec who could help him. It was well
therefore to treat him with merited contempt from the first, and prove
to him that he had no allies among them.
VII.
THE COVERED BRIDGE.
After this interview the two girls separated. Pauline was anxious to
reach home in order to get information about her father. Zulma proposed
driving back to Pointe-aux-Trembles. Her friend did her best to dissuade
her. She pleaded that the day was too far advanced for safe travel, and
entreated Zulma to postpone her departure till the following morning.
"And my old father?" objected the latter.
"He will have no apprehensions. The news of the enemy's arrival will not
reach him to-day."
"Oh, but it will. Such news travels fast."
"But he can have no fear, knowing you to be safe with your friends in
the city."
"My father has no fears about me, Pauline. He knows that I can take care
of myself; but it is for himself that I am desirous of returning. He is
feeble and infirm, and requires my presence."
"But, my dear, consider the risk you run. The roads will be infested
with these horrid soldiers, and what protection have you against them?"
For all answer the cheek of Zulma flushed, and her blue eyes gleamed
with a strange light that was not defiance, but rather betokened the
expectation of pleasurable excitement.
"Wait till to-morrow morning," continued Pauline, "and you can go under
the shelter of some military passport. I am sure Roderick would be
delighted to get you such a paper."
Zulma's lips curled with scorn, but she made no direct reply. She
simply repeated her determination to go, tenderly reassuring her friend,
and embracing her with effusion.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the day had already
considerably lowered, when Zulma's sleigh reached the outer gate of the
city. The officer in charge would fain have prevented her from going
further, but she stated her case so plainly, and argued with such an air
of authority, that he was obliged to yield to her wishes.
"Well," said she to herself, with a smile, "I have broken through one
circle of steel. It remains to see how I will pass through the other."
She did not have long to wait. About two miles from the city, the road
which she was following went down a steep hill at the foot of which
flowed a little stream much swollen at this season with snow and cakes
of ice. Over this stream there was a covered bridge whose entrance was
very dark. As she began the descent, the gloom and solitude of the gorge
rather agitated the nerves of Zulma, and she stimulated her horse in
order to pass through the bridge as rapidly as possible. Her eyes
glanced over every point of the ravine, and it was with a sigh of relief
that she approached the bridge without seeing any human being. But
suddenly, as the horse's hoofs touched the edge of the planked floor,
the animal grew restive, tossed up his head, balanced right and left in
the traces, and gave other unmistakeable signs of danger ahead. Zulma
attempted to urge him forward, but this only increased his terror. Her
servant, a green young rustic, with more strength than courage, turned
to her with consternation stamped upon his blank face, and muttered
something about obeying the animal's instinct and not venturing to
proceed farther.
"Jump out and see what is the matter," she exclaimed. "If you are
afraid, I will do it."
The fellow slowly stepped from the vehicle, and feeling his way along
the shaft, reached the horse's head where he paused and peered into the
dark cavity of the bridge. He then seized the bridle and tried to lead
the beast along. But the latter wrenched the bit from the driver's hand,
raised his forelegs high in air, shaking the sleigh and imperilling the
seat of Zulma. She, too, was about to leap forth, when her servant ran
back precipitately, exclaiming:
"The Bastonnais!"
At the same moment the gleam of bayonets was seen under the arch of the
bridge, two soldiers advanced into the light, and the sharp, stern
summons of halt resounded through the hollow.
The servant stood trembling behind the sleigh. Zulma quietly signalled
the two soldiers to approach her. They did so. She said a word to them
in French, but they shook their heads. They then spoke in English, but
she in turn shook her head. They smiled and she smiled. By this time,
the horse, as if he appreciated the situation, having turned his head to
look at the soldiers, became tranquil in his place. The servant had not
half the same sense, and stood trembling behind the sleigh.
The soldiers consulted together a moment, then the elder signified to
Zulma that she would have to return to the city. She replied in the same
language that she must go on. They insisted with some seriousness. She
insisted with a show of rising temper. The position was becoming
embarrassing, when a tall figure appeared at the edge of the bridge, and
a loud word of command caused the soldiers to fall back. Zulma looked
forward and an expression of mingled surprise and pleasure was
discernible upon her countenance. The new comer advanced to the side of
the sleigh, touched his cap and bowed respectfully to its fair inmate:
"Excuse my men, mademoiselle," said he, in excellent French. "They have
detained you, I perceive, but we are patrolling the roads and their
orders are strict. You desire to pass out into the country?"
"If you please, sir."
"With this man?"
"Yes; he is not a soldier, but a family servant. We entered Quebec this
morning before the investment, and it is absolutely necessary for me to
reach my home to-night."
Zulma's tone was not that of a suppliant. Her manner showed that, as she
had not feared the commands of the soldiers, so she had no favor to ask
of the officer. The latter, doubtless, observed this, and was not
displeased thereat, for instead of giving the permission to proceed, he
seemed to linger and hesitate, as if he fain would prolong the
interview. Finally, he managed to introduce a link into the conversation
by asking Zulma whether she did not fear to pursue her journey at that
late hour, declaring that, if she did, he would be happy to furnish her
with an escort. She answered laughingly that perhaps the escort itself
would be the greatest danger she would be likely to encounter on the
way.
"Then I will escort you myself," said the young officer with a profound
bow.
Zulma thanked him, adding the assurance that she needed no protection,
as she anticipated no annoyance. She then called her servant to his seat
beside her, and was about driving off when the loud report of a gun was
heard in the direction of the city. She and the officer looked at each
other.
"A stray shot," said the latter, after listening a moment. "It is
nothing. You are not afraid, mademoiselle?"
"Excuse me, sir," Zulma replied, "but this is the second shot I have
heard to-day. This one may mean nothing, but the first was terrible, and
I shall never forget it."
The officer looked at Zulma, but said nothing.
"Is it possible that you do not remember it too?"
"We are so used to it, mademoiselle, that--"
"The man who fired that shot is a scoundrel, and the man at whom it was
fired," exclaimed Zulma, sitting upright and fixing a glowing eye upon
the officer, "is a hero. Good evening, sir."
And, as if impelled by the spirit with which his mistress pronounced
these words, the horse dashed forward, and the sleigh plunged into the
gloomy cavern of the bridge.
VIII.
CARY SINGLETON.
It was Cary Singleton. He stood a moment looking in the direction of the
bridge, then walked slowly away buried in thought. He was perplexed to
understand the meaning of the words which the beautiful Canadian had
spoken. Which was the shot that she referred to, and who was the
fortunate man whom she proclaimed a hero? At last, the suspicion flashed
upon him that perhaps the young lady had witnessed the scene of that
afternoon under the walls of Quebec. It was very probable, indeed, that
she was one of the hundreds who had lined the ramparts at the time that
the flag of truce advanced toward the gate. In that case, she may have
meant the treacherous firing on the flag, and if she did, her hero must
be the bearer of that flag. But this was almost too good to be true. The
girl was doubtless a loyalist, and to speak as she did, if she meant as
he thought, would argue either that she was a rebel at heart, or that
she was actuated by higher principles of humanity than he had a right to
look for in exciting and demoralizing times of war. And then could she
possibly have recognized him?--for it was no other than he that had
borne the ill-starred flag.
This last question gave a new zest to his excitement, and he stopped
short on the brow of the hill to nerve himself for a sudden resolution.
A second rapid analysis convinced him that he had indeed been recognized
by the lovely stranger. Her whole demeanor, her animated glance, her
inflamed cheek, her gesture of agitation and her last passionate word,
as he now vividly remembered them, pointed to no other conclusion. Yes,
she remembered him, she knew him, and, in a moment of unguarded
enthusiasm, she had expressed her admiration of him. And to be admired
by such a woman! He came from a land proverbial as much for female
beauty as for manly chivalry, but never had his eyes been blessed with a
vision of such transcendent perfection. Every rare feature came out in
full relief on his memory--the great blue eye, the broad entablature of
forehead, the seductive curl of lip, the splendid carriage of head, and,
above all, the magnificence of queenly form.
Cary Singleton was transported. He stormed against himself for having
been a fool. Why had he not understood these things ten minutes ago as
he understood them now? But he would make up for it. He would run over
to his encampment, a few rods behind the wood which skirted the road,
procure a horse, and start off in pursuit of the beautiful girl. He
would learn her name, he would discover where she lived and then ... and
then....
But a bugle-blast startled him from his dream, and shattered his
resolve. It was a call to quarters for special duty. He looked up and
saw great clouds of darkness roll into the valley. Alas! the day was
indeed done, and it was all too late. He walked grimly to camp bewailing
his lost opportunity, and devising all kinds of schemes to recover it.
As he tossed upon his cold pallet of straw that night, his dreams were
of the lonely gorge, the covered bridge, the fairy apparition, and when
he awoke the following morning, it was with the hope that such an
adventure would not remain without a sequel. He felt that it would be a
mockery of fate that he should have travelled so far through the forests
of Maine and over the desert plains of the Chaudière, suffering hunger,
thirst and fatigue, and facing death in every shape, to see what he had
seen, to hear what he had heard, the night before, and then be denied
the fruition of eye and ear forever.
It must be remembered that Cary Singleton was barely one-and-twenty
years of age, and that in him the enthusiasm of youth was intensified by
an exuberant vigor of health. Your wildest lovers are not the sickly
sentimentalists of tepid drawing-rooms, but the rollicking giants of the
open air, and the adventures of a Werther are baby trifles compared to
the infinite love-scrapes which are recounted of a Hercules.
Cary Singleton came of a good stock, Maryland on the side of his father,
Virginian on that of his mother. The Cary and Singleton families survive
to our day, through successive generations of honor, but they need not
be ashamed of their representative who figures in these humble pages. He
had spent his early life on his father's estate, mingling in every manly
exercise, and his latter days were passed at old Princeton, where he
attained all the accomplishments suited to his station. He was
particularly proficient in polite literature and the modern languages,
having mastered the French tongue from many years of intercourse with
the governess of his sisters. Cary had prepared himself for the law and
was about entering on its practice, when the war of the Revolution broke
out. He then enlisted in the corps of Virginia riflemen formed by the
celebrated Captain Morgan, and proceeded to Boston to join the army of
Washington, in the summer of 1775. He had not been there many weeks
before the expedition to Canada was planned. Washington, who agreed with
Congress as to the importance of this campaign, gave much personal
attention to organization of the invading army, and it was by his
personal direction that Morgan's battalion was included in it. When the
force took its final departure in September, Cary received the honor of
a hearty clasp of hand and a few words of counsel from the Father of his
Country, and this circumstance cheered him to those deeds of endurance
and valor which distinguished his career in Canada.
IX.
THE SONG OF THE VIOLIN.
It was the hour of midnight, and all was still in the solitary cabin of
Batoche. Little Blanche was fast asleep in her sofa-crib, and Velours
was rolled in a torpid circle on the hearth. The fire burned low,
casting a faint and fitful gleam through the room. The hermit occupied
his usual seat in the leather chair at one corner of the chimney.
Whether he had been napping or musing it were difficult to say, but it
was with a quiet, almost stealthy movement that he walked to the door
which he opened, and looked out into the night. Returning, he placed a
large log on the fire, stirring it with his foot till its reflection
lighted one half of the apartment. He then proceeded to the alcove, and
drew forth from it his violin. The strings were thrummed to make sure of
their accord, the heel was set in the hollow of the shoulder, and the
bow executed a rapid prelude. The old man smiled as if satisfied with
the cunning of his hand, and well he might, for these simple touches
revealed the artist.
"What will you sing me to-night?" said Batoche looking lovingly at his
old brown instrument. "There has been strange thunder in the voice of
the Falls all the day, and I have felt very singular this evening. I do
not know what is abroad, but perhaps you will tell me."