to friends whom they met, the two wended their way towards Cape Diamond.
On the top of that portion of the citadel they were quite alone, and
they could commune together without interruption. They both appeared to
be pleased with this, each probably feeling that they had something to
say to the other, or rather that they might touch upon topics,
untouched before, which might lead to better mutual understanding.
Roderick was a trifle graver and more reserved than his companion.
Pauline made nothing of that, attributing it to his military anxieties,
a supposition which his conversation at first seemed to justify.
"This is an exposed point," said he, "which in a few days none of us
will be able to occupy. When the whole rebel army moves up from
Pointe-aux-Trembles, they can easily shell us out of this side of the
citadel."
"But it is a good point of observation, is it not?" asked Pauline.
"Capital, though not so good as that one higher up which is well guarded
and where double sentries will always be posted."
As he spoke, Roderick caught view of moving figures on the highway near
the Plains of Abraham.
"Look Pauline," he said. "Do you know those fellows?"
"I do not. Are they soldiers?"
"They call themselves Virginia riflemen. They are the advance guard of
the rebel army. They have been prowling around for the past two days."
"Virginia riflemen, Roddy?" said Pauline looking up with an expression
of languid inquiry in her dark eyes.
"Yes. You ought to know something about them. Don't you remember the
young officer who escorted you to the gates the day before yesterday?"
"Oh," replied Pauline, with no attempt to conceal her surprise or
interest, "you don't mean to say that he is down there among those poor
unsheltered men?"
"I do, certainly, and I am sure he enjoys it. I would in his place. He
has plenty of room to rove about in. It is not like being cooped up, as
we are, within these narrow walls."
"Well, he is strong and hearty and can stand a little hardship. That's
some comfort," said Pauline wagging her little head sympathetically.
This evidently amused Roderick, who replied:
"Yes, he is a stout, tough fellow."
"And so brave," pursued Pauline with growing warmth while her eyes were
fixed on the plain beyond.
"Every soldier ought to be brave, Pauline. But I must allow that this
man is particularly brave. He has proved it before our eyes."
Pauline answered not, but her attention remained fixed on the distant
sight before her. Roderick burst out into a hearty laugh and said:
"Surely this is not all you have got to say about him. He is strong, he
is brave, and--isn't he something else, eh, Pauline?"
She turned suddenly and answered Hardinge's laugh with a smile, but
there was the tell-tale blood in her cheek.
"Come now, dear, isn't he handsome?" continued Roderick, proud of his
triumph and full of mischief.
"Well, yes, he is handsome," answered Pauline with a delicious pout and
mock-show of aggressiveness.
"And what else?"
"Modest."
"What else?"
"Refined."
"What else?"
"Educated."
"What else?"
"Kind."
"Kind to you, dear?"
"Particularly kind to me."
"Thank him for that. He could choose no worthier object of his kindness.
Excuse my teasing you, Pauline. It was only a bit of fun. I quite agree
in your estimate of this American officer. He and I ought to be
friends, instead of enemies."
"You will be friends yet," said Pauline with a tone of conviction.
"Alas!"
A pause ensued during which despondent thoughts flashed through the
brain of Roderick Hardinge. All the horrors of war loomed up in a lump
before him, and the terrible uncertainties of battle revealed themselves
keenly. He had never felt his position so deeply before. This rebel was
as good as himself, perhaps better. They might have met and enjoyed life
together. Now their duty was to do each to death, or entail as much loss
as possible upon one another. Losses! What if one of these losses should
be that of the lovely creature at his side? That were indeed the loss of
all losses.
But no, he would not entertain the thought. He tossed up his head and
drank in the cold air with expanded lungs. He felt Pauline's small hand
upon his arm. The touch thrilled his whole being.
"Look, Roddy," she said pointing to the plain.
XI.
HORSEMAN AND AMAZON.
What they both saw was this. A band of some twenty men, members of
Morgan's corps, stood in groups on the extreme edge of the plain. At a
given signal a horseman issued in a canter from their midst. The animal
was almost pure white, with small, well-proportioned head, small clean
hoofs, long haunches, abundant mane and sweeping tail. Every limb was
instinct with speed, while the pricked ear, rolling eye and thin pink
nostril denoted intelligence and fire. The rider was arrayed in the full
uniform of a rifleman--grass-green coat and trousers, trimmed with black
fur, through which ran a golden tape; crimson sash with white powder
horn attached; a black turban-shaped hat of medium height, flanked over
the left temple with a black aigrette of short dark feathers, which was
held by a circular clasp of bright yellow metal. The rider trotted
around leisurely in a long eclipse until the snow was sufficiently
beaten for his purpose. He then indulged in a variety of extraordinary
feats, each of which seemed to be demanded of him by one or the other of
his companions. Among these the following may be worth enumerating. He
launched his horse at full speed, when suddenly loosening his feet from
the stirrups and his hand from the bridle, he sprang upwards and threw
himself with both legs now on the left, then on the right of the saddle.
He leaned far forward on the horse's neck so that the two heads were
exactly parallel, and next fell back into the saddle facing the crupper
and holding on to nothing. He stopped his horse suddenly and made him
stand almost perpendicular on his hind legs. Then, without the
assistance of bridle, stirrup, or pommel, he secured his position and
made the animal plunge wildly forward as if he were clearing a high
hurdle, while he no more swerved from his seat than if he had been
pinioned to it. Setting his horse again at his topmost bent, he took his
pistol, threw it into the air, caught it on the fly, and finally hurled
it with all his might in front of him. Then slipping one foot from the
stirrup, he bent his body over to the ground, seized the weapon as he
passed, recovered his position and replaced the pistol in its place,
before reaching the end of his round.
The friends of the rider were not more intent in their observation than
were the two spectators on the slope of the Citadel.
"Marvellous horsemanship," exclaimed Hardinge with enthusiasm. "The
animal must be an Arabian or some other thoroughbred. Whose can he be?
There is no such horse in these parts or I should have known it. And yet
it is hardly possible that he should have come along with Arnold's
expedition."
"And the rider?" murmured Pauline, advancing several steps in the
earnestness of her gaze.
"Yes, the rider," continued Roderick. "See he lives in the horse and the
horse in him. They seem to form part and parcel of one another. A
magnificent fellow."
"Impossible," said Pauline, shading her eyes with her hand to sharpen
her vision. "It cannot be."
"What?" queried Roderick.
"I thought perhaps...."
"But it is, Pauline."
"You don't mean it?"
"It is no other."
"Cary Singleton!"
Forgetful of everything, in her transport, she applauded with her gloved
hands. Roderick took off his cap and saluted.
"This is a brave sight, Pauline, and well worth our coming thus far to
see."
The girl was silent, and when at length she diverted her eyes, it was
not to encounter those of her companion. A slight trouble arose within
her which might have increased into an embarrassment, had not another
incident almost immediately occurred to give distraction.
The rider, having finished his gyrations, returned to his friends, who
after a brief parley dispersed, leaving him alone with a small group of
two or three, among whom appeared to be a lady on horseback. At least,
so thought both Roderick and Pauline. They did not mind the
circumstance, however, and were on the point of retracing their steps
homeward, when they noticed that two riders detached themselves from the
rest and took the direction of the plain. It was easy to recognize Cary
Singleton, and, in a few moments, as easy to see that he was accompanied
by a lady. The twain went along at a gentle walk directly towards the
St. Lawrence. The sun was still shining brightly, and as they rode, they
were sometimes in light and sometimes in shadow, according as they
passed the leafless maples that skirted the path. When they reached the
high bank overlooking the river, they stopped for a few moments in
conversation, Singleton evidently describing something, as indicated by
the movement of his arm along the line of the stream and again in the
direction of the town.
While they were thus engaged, the couple on the Citadel watched them
closely without uttering a word. The reader will readily guess that
Pauline watched the man, and Roderick the woman. Of the two, the latter
was far more intent in his observation, the former looking on in rather
a dreamy way.
At length, the officer and the amazon turned their horses' heads on
their backward journey. As they did so, they both happened to look
directly toward the town. Whatever it was that drew their attention, it
was sufficiently interesting to cause them to stop and confer together.
Then the lady made a sudden movement as if to advance straight forward,
but she was restrained by her attendant, who pointing to the guns on the
ramparts, made her understand that she must keep out of range.
It was at this point that Hardinge abruptly broke silence.
"I thought so," was his brief remark, uttered almost sternly between his
teeth.
Pauline did not appear to hear him.
"I knew I was not mistaken," he continued a little louder.
Pauline caught the word and looked up in wonder.
"I have a right to remember her."
"What do you mean, Roddy?"
"It is the very same riding habit?"
Pauline was now perfectly astonished. Hardinge's face was aglow.
"I would know that form in a thousand."
"What form?"
"And that carriage."
"Roddy, you don't intend to say?"
"I tell you it is Zulma Sarpy."
"You are jesting."
"Look, she is waving her handkerchief."
And so she was. She twisted and brandished it, and, in doing so,
agitated her horse to that extent that he fell back on his haunches and
pawed with his front feet. Roderick took off his cap and remained
uncovered a moment. Pauline shouted for joy and fluttered her
handkerchief in return. Singleton doffed his plumed hat, bowing low over
his holsters. It was a moment of exquisite excitement. But only a
moment. Swift as the wind the riders dashed away over the plain. Turning
suddenly, Hardinge recognized the danger of his position.
"Let us go, Pauline," he said, "we may be seen by our men and it would
be very awkward."
They hurried down the slope of the Citadel and entered into the town
without almost exchanging a word. Pauline was radiant. Roderick was
somewhat sullen. Gradually, however, they both resumed their composure
and sauntered for another half-hour together very agreeably, but talking
of quite indifferent subjects.
"That spectacle was more than we had bargained for," said Pauline,
taking off her gloves and laying her furs on the little central table of
her chamber. "I certainly never expected to see him again. That graceful
salutation of his was intended for me, no doubt. And I recognized him at
once, while Roddy did not. On the other hand, he recognized Zulma, and I
did not. Wasn't that strange?"
Pauline paused in her disrobing and thought over this. And the more she
thought over it, the more it appeared strange. It appeared so strange
that her features assumed a look of sadness and anxiety.
"What could Zulma be doing away from home to-day?" thought Pauline
further. "How was it that she met the officer? What if she came
purposely to see him? That would be just like Zulma. She is a fearless
girl. She cares for nobody. She can do what no other young woman could
attempt, without exciting criticism, or if there is criticism it falls
harmless at her feet."
For the first time in all these days, Pauline experienced something akin
to an envy of her brilliant friend. That is, she envied her spirit of
independence. She, of the drooping eyes and shrinking heart, felt that
she too would like to dare just a little, as Zulma did. Another proof of
the transformation which was being effected in her. But in this
particular, it was impossible for her to go beyond velleities. Much as
she might change, Pauline Belmont could never be Zulma Sarpy, and if the
dear child only knew it, it was not desirable that she should be. She
had her own claims to admiration and love. Zulma had hers. These were
almost radically different, but precisely their contrast enhanced the
value of each.
"I wonder if Zulma received my letter," added Pauline after finishing
her toilet. "It is possible that Batoche may have met her and delivered
it. I hope he did. In that case she must have been particularly glad to
see us and salute Roddy after his promotion. I am convinced of one
thing. Much as Zulma admires Cary Singleton, she thinks a great deal of
Roderick Hardinge. And I am equally sure that Roddy thinks a great deal
of Zulma."
And Pauline, sitting before her fire, crooned the old songs of youth,
while her mind wandered away and away, till the shadows of evening lay
deep on her window squares.
XII.
WAS IT DESIGN OR ACCIDENT.
Batoche delivered Pauline's letter to Zulma earlier than he expected. He
had intended to go out to the Sarpy mansion on purpose to do so, but to
his surprise and pleasure, he encountered her that very day in the
environs of Quebec. She was on horseback, accompanied by a servant. As
soon as she spied the old soldier, she rode up to him and greeted him in
the warmest language. A few words of conversation sufficed to reveal the
intention of her journey. She had taken advantage of the splendid
weather for a jaunt across the country and had chosen the direction of
Quebec in order to learn what was going on between the contending
armies. Batoche confined himself to a few words about her friends within
the town and excused himself from saying more by producing the letter of
Pauline. Zulma seized it eagerly, broke the seal and ran her eye over
the numerous sheets. She said nothing, but the expression of her
countenance was that of intense amusement, except towards the end of the
reading when it changed to a look of curious gravity.
"I shall read it more leisurely when I get home," she said to Batoche,
folding the missive and secreting it in her bosom, "and Pauline will be
sure to receive a long answer. For the present, please give her my
thanks and tell her that the things that she writes me are full of
interest. It is very kind of her thus to think of me. Tell her that she
is ever present to my mind. I am in no danger, but she is. I can roam
about at my pleasure, while she is restrained within the walls. Tell her
that I am prepared to do anything I can for her. Whatever she needs she
will have from me, and you will be our messenger, will you not,
Batoche?"
The old man signified his ready assent.
"If there is a necessity for it, I will go to Pauline even through the
barricades and barriers. Wherever you lead, Batoche, I will follow. Tell
her this, and now, adieu."
"Adieu?" said Batoche inquiringly.
"Yes, I will return home. I have had an agreeable ride. I might perhaps
have advanced a little further, but now that I have met you, and
received this precious letter, I am satisfied."
"It is not yet late in the forenoon," replied Batoche. "Mademoiselle
might tarry somewhat longer. I think she might render her journey still
more agreeable."
Through these simple words, Zulma was not slow to discern the meaning of
her old friend. Her cheek reddened and her eye got animated, spite of
the exertions she made to hide her emotions.
"Some of your old tricks of divination again," she said laughing. "Pray,
why should I tarry longer?"
Batoche met her ardent glance with a flash of intelligence. Pointing to
a little clump of wood, about a quarter of a mile to the right, he said:
"I gave him your note, mademoiselle. He was deeply moved. He declared he
would treasure it all his life. Perhaps he has answered you already."
Zulma shook her head slowly, but made no interruption.
"He is there, mademoiselle, with his command. Perhaps in a few days, he
may be ordered further forward. If he knew that you were so near him and
did not see you, I am certain that he would be deeply distressed. If he
knew that you were here, he would ride out at once to meet you."
Zulma still maintained silence, but she could not conceal the agitation
which these words produced within her.
"Mademoiselle," continued Batoche, "will you advance with me a little,
or shall I go on and tell him that you are here?"
"I put myself in your hands," said Zulma in a low voice, bending over to
the old soldier.
Batoche darted a last glance at her, which appeared to decide him. He
set forth at once in the direction of the camp, and before ten minutes
had elapsed, Cary Singleton was riding in hot haste to meet Zulma. He
persuaded her to remain a few hours in the camp in the company of his
fellow officers and it was in her honour that he performed the
tournament which we have described in the preceding chapter. And it was
thus that they both unexpectedly were seen by Pauline and Hardinge.
XIII.
THE INTENDANT'S PALACE.
On the 5th December the whole American army marched up to Quebec.
Montgomery, who had come down from Montreal with his victorious army,
joined Arnold at Pointe-aux-Trembles and took command of the expedition.
Flushed with the success which had laid all Canada at his feet, in a
campaign of barely three months, the youthful hero advanced against the
last rampart of British power with the determination to carry it or die.
His troops shared his enthusiasm. The despondency of the preceding
fortnight had melted away and was replaced by an ardour that was proof
against the rigours of the season and the undisguised difficulties of
the gigantic task which confronted them. They knew that the eyes of all
their countrymen were upon them. The Congress at Philadelphia paused in
its work of legislation to listen to the news from Canada. Washington
was almost forgotten in the anxiety about Montgomery. New England stood
expectant of wonders from the gallantry of Arnold. In far-off Maryland
and Virginia, the mothers, wives and daughters on the plantations had no
thoughts but of the postboy who galloped down the lane with letters from
the North, where their loved ones were serving under the chivalrous
Morgan. It was generally felt then, as it is now well understood in the
light of history, that on the fate of Quebec depended, in great measure,
the fate of the continental revolution. If that stronghold were
captured, the Americans would be rid of every enemy from the North; the
French-Canadians and the Indians, friendly to France, would be
encouraged to join the cause of independence; while the moral effect in
Europe, where Wolfe's immortal achievement was still fresh in all minds,
would doubtless hasten the boon of intervention.
Montgomery, who was altogether a superior man, was keenly alive to all
these considerations, hence when he moved up from Pointe-aux-Trembles he
carried with him the full weight of this enormous responsibility. How
far he was equal to it these humble pages will briefly tell for the
hundredth time, and the writer is proud that he is allowed the
opportunity to tell it.
Montgomery took up his headquarters at Holland House, and Arnold
occupied Langlois House, near Scott's Bridge. Around these two points
revolved the fortunes of the Continental army during this momentous
month of December prior to the attack on Quebec.
It was in the latter building, on the morning after the arrival of the
army, that Morgan, who, as we have stated, had preceded the main body by
five days, and occupied the principal roads leading to the beleaguered
town, received from Arnold the command to occupy the suburb of St. Roch,
near the Intendant's Palace. This historical pile was perhaps the most
magnificent monument in the Province. It was built as early as 1684, by
orders of the French King, under the administration of Intendant De
Meulles. In 1712, it was consumed by fire, when occupied by Intendant
Begon, but was reconstructed by orders from Versailles. During the last
eleven years of French domination, from 1748 to 1759, it became famous
through the orgies and bacchanalian scandals of Intendant Bigot, the
Sardanapalus of New France, whose exploits of gallantry and conviviality
would have formed a fitting theme for romance from the pen of the elder
Dumas. After the Conquest, the British had almost entirely neglected it,
as they held their official offices entirely with the town. At the time
of the siege, therefore, the edifice was in a deserted and somewhat
dilapidated condition, but its large dimensions afforded shelter to a
considerable number of Americans, and its advantageous locality
suggested to Montgomery the idea of making it the headquarters of his
sharpshooters. Morgan was ordered in consequence to place there a picked
detachment of riflemen. This he put under the command of Singleton, who
moved thither a couple of days after his interview with Zulma. From the
high cupola of the Intendant's Palace, he kept up a regular fire on the
exposed points of the garrison. The sentries along the walls were picked
off, one after another; whenever a reconnoitring party appeared above
the stockades, they were at once driven under cover, and even the
workers of the barbette guns were often frightened away from their
pieces. Whenever, as frequently happened, a few mortars were pointed on
the town from the environs of the Palace, the sharp fusillade which
accompanied them from the embrasures of the cupola, produced the
liveliest commotion within the walls, causing the alarm bells to sound
and sending battalion upon battalion of militia to the rescue. The
Americans were very much encouraged by this sign of success, imagining
that they had discovered a strong strategic point. The British were
proportionately vexed, and Carleton determined on getting rid of the
annoyance. For that purpose he brought a battery of nine pounders to
bear upon the building. When Cary Singleton saw it mounted, he smelt
mischief.
"We will be knocked off our pins, boys," he said, "but before we drop
let every man of you bring down his man."
The contest was keen and animated. The riflemen of Virginia poured
volley after volley against the artillerists, while the latter hurled
their solid balls against the massive masonry. At first they fired low,
battering in doors, splintering wood-work, unhinging shutters, and
ploughing the floors. The old walls of the town were shrouded in clouds
of white smoke. The Palace appeared like a ring of fire from the red
barrels of the riflemen. At length, one of the British militia officers
stepped forward and pointed a nine-pounder direct on the cupola.
Cary spied the movement and exclaimed:
"This is our last chance. Fire!"
Loud and clear boomed the roar of that fatal cannon shot amid the rattle
of musketry. There was a crash, a shivering of timbers, and then a heavy
fall. When the smoke cleared away, the Intendant's Palace was a heap of
ruins. The cupola had entirely disappeared. Wounded men crept out of the
debris as well as they could, some limping, some holding a broken arm,
others bandaging their damaged scalps, but all trailing their muskets.
Cary Singleton was borne away by two of his men badly hurt in both legs.
The British officer who had aimed the victorious shot stood towering on
the walls surveying his achievement. It was Roderick Hardinge.
"Well done, Captain," said Caldwell, commander of the militia regiment
to which Roderick belonged, and who had entrusted his young friend with
the destruction of the Palace. "That is a good work. I have watched it
from the bastion yonder and come to congratulate you. I shall recommend
you for immediate promotion."
And so he did. Before that day had ended Roderick Hardinge was breveted
a Major. He was overjoyed, and after receiving the congratulations of
his friends, he hurried off to tell Pauline of his good fortune. Her
father was out of the house and she was quite alone. When she opened the
door to Hardinge, her eyes were red with weeping, and she held a bit of
written paper in her hand. There is no need to describe the meeting.
Suffice it to say that the note had informed her of Cary Singleton's
fall.
XIV.
LITTLE BLANCHE.
Zulma had not forgotten her promise to Batoche concerning little
Blanche. The last time she had met the old man, the subject was mooted
and the answer she received was that possibly within a few days he would
have occasion to demand her good services in favour of his
granddaughter. An unforeseen circumstance hastened their meeting. Sieur
Sarpy having learned that an intimate friend of his, living at the
village of Charlesbourg, was very ill and particularly desired to see
him, proposed to Zulma that she should accompany him on the visit. There
was no risk attending the journey, as although Charlesbourg lay not very
far from Quebec, to the north-east and in the environs of Montmorenci,
it was out of the beat of the besieging forces, and could be reached by
a circuitous route free from all interruptions. The promise of immunity
had no effect upon Zulma, who knew that she had nothing whatever to
fear, but she accepted the offer eagerly through the motive of being
near her aged father, and because the excitement of travel was a
positive relief in her then state of mind. The journey was accomplished
successfully and without incident. The weather was favourable and the
winter roads excellent. Sieur Sarpy finding his friend very ill indeed,
decided upon remaining two or three days at his bedside. The first day
Zulma kept him company, but the second, having learned upon inquiry that
Batoche's cabin was not a great distance away, she felt an irresistible
desire to drive over and visit little Blanche. Her father did not think
it worth his while to interpose any objections, although he really did
not fancy the project. Strange to say, his sick friend favoured it.
Smiling languidly, he said in a whisper:--
"Let your daughter go. She may be able to do some good. Batoche is a
wonderful man. We all like him, however little we can make him out. I am
told that his granddaughter is a very singular child. Let Zulma go."
She went accompanied only by her own servant. She would accept no other
escort. When she debouched from the Charlesbourg road into the broad
highway leading from Quebec through Beauport to Montmorenci and onwards,
she heard the sullen roar of cannon and the muffled roll of musketry in
front of the town. She stopped a moment to listen, remarking to her
companion that the firing was brisker than usual. But she was not
further impressed, and soon drove on. The directions she had received
were so precise that no difficulty was experienced in finding the route
to the cabin. The little path leading to it from the main road was
unbeaten either by trace of cariole or web of snow-shoe, but her horse
broke through it easily enough, and pulled up in front of the hut almost
before it was seen. It was nearly indistinguishable, being white as the
element by which it was surrounded, and silent as the solitude amid
which it stood. The faintest thread of white smoke rose from the
chimney. Not a sound in the environs could be heard save the dull moan
of the waterfall. Zulma stepped lightly out of the sleigh, tripped up to
the door and rapped gently. No answer. She rapped a little louder. Still
no answer. She applied her ear to the small aperture of the latch. Not a
breath was audible. Getting just a little excited, not through fear, but
through the mystery of adventure, she drew off her glove and knocked
vigorously. The door opened wide and noiselessly on its hinges, and
across it stood a mite of a girl, dressed in white woollen. For a moment
Zulma did not stir. She could not. The strangeness of that child's face,
its weird beauty, the singular light in the wide-open eyes arrested her
footsteps and almost the beating of her heart. And near the child was a
huge black cat, with stiff tail, bristling fur and glaring green eye,
not hostile exactly, but sharply observant and expectant.
"Blanche," said Zulma at length in a voice whose musical softness was as
that of a mother's appeal. "_Bon jour_, Blanche. You do not know me. My
name is Zulma Sarpy."
There was no fear in the child's face from the first. Now all doubt and
hesitation disappeared from it. She did not smile, but a beautiful
serenity spread over it. She joined her two little thin hands together,
open palm to palm, and instead of approaching, retreated a step or two
as if to make way for her visitor. Zulma entered and closed the door.
"I have come to see you, Blanche. Your grandfather has spoken to me of
you, and I want to do something for you."
The child answered brightly that her grandfather had indeed mentioned
mademoiselle Sarpy's name and told her how good she had been to him and
how she had promised to be her friend. Both Zulma and Blanche being now
perfectly at ease, our old acquaintance Velours testified her
satisfaction at this issue of affairs by curving her long back and
rubbing herself against the hem of Zulma's cloak. Blanche gave her
visitor a seat, helped her to take off her furs, and soon the two were
engaged in earnest discourse. Zulma looked around the room and moved
about to examine the many articles of its quaint furniture. This
afforded her the opportunity of asking many questions, to all of which
Blanche returned the most intelligent answers. Indeed, the child gave
proofs of very remarkable intelligence. There was patent in her a wisdom
far beyond her years. It was something different from the usual
precocity, because the range of her information was limited enough, and
there was sufficient simplicity in her discourse to eliminate that
feeling of anxiety and pain which we always experience in the presence
of abnormally developed children. Zulma made her tell all about her
grandfather, and thus learned curious details concerning a character
which she intensely admired, notwithstanding the mystery which was set
like a seal upon it--a mystery which Blanche's unconscious revelations
rendered only deeper and more provokingly interesting. She spoke to the
child, too, of her godmother, Pauline, and it was a delight to learn
from those truthful lips how much more loveable her dear friend was than
she had ever suspected. Zulma felt that her visit was more than repaid
by the insight she thus gained into the characters of Pauline and
Batoche.
Then she broached higher things. She spoke of God and religion. The
untutored child of the forest rose with the occasion. There was nothing
conventional in her mind or words on these topics--as how could there be
under the wayward teaching of Batoche? But her intuitions were crystal
clear. There were no breaks, no obscurations in her spiritual vision. It
was evident that she had studied and communed direct with nature, and
that her soul had grown in literal contact with the winds and the
flowers, the trees and the water courses, and the pure untrammelled
elements of God.
She knelt before the lap of Zulma and recited all the prayers she
knew--the formulas which the priest and Pauline had taught her, and the
ejaculations which she had taught herself to say, in the bright morning,
in the dark evening, in the silent days of peace, in the crash of the
tempest, or when her little heart ached from whatever cause as she
passed from infancy to adolescence. The contrast between the styles of
these prayers impressed Zulma very strongly. The former were such as she
herself knew, complete, appropriate and pathetic in their very
phraseology. The latter were fragmentary, rude, and sometimes
incongruous in syntax, but they spoke the poetry of the heart, and their
yearning fervour and indubiety made Zulma understand, as she listened to
them through her tears, how it is that wayside statues of stone, and
wooden figures of the Madonna in lofty niches, are said to hear and
answer by visible tokens the prayers of the illiterate, the unfortunate,
and the poor.
"Are you not lonely here my dear?" asked Zulma raising the child from
her knees and stroking back her hair as she stood leaning against her
arm.
"I am used to be alone, mademoiselle," was the reply. "I have never had
any company but my grandfather, who is often absent. He seeks food for
both of us. He kills birds and animals in the woods. He catches fish in
the river. Nobody ever came to see us except of late when my grandfather
has been called away by strange men and has remained absent longer than
usual. When he is here he speaks to me, he tells me stories, he teaches
me to understand the pictures in some of his old books, he plays the
violin for me. When he is gone I take more time to do my work, washing
clothes, cleaning the dishes, sweeping the room, mending my dresses.
When this is done, if the weather is fine, I gather flowers and fruits,
I sit at the Falls making wreaths for our pictures and my grandfather's
crucifix. If it is dark or stormy outside, I sing canticles, repeat my
catechism, and when I am tired I play with Velours. She never leaves
me."
Blanche did not say all these things consecutively, but in reply to
repeated questions from Zulma, who led her on step by step. And not the
answers themselves, but the manner in which they were made, the tone of
voice, the expression of the eye and the ready gesture, all increased
her interest in this strange charming little being.
"But of late," she said, "your grandfather has been away several nights
together. Were you left all alone?"
"Yes, all alone, mademoiselle."
"And you were not afraid?"
Blanche smiled and there was a vacant look in her eye which reminded
Zulma of Batoche.
"The night is the same as the day," she said.
"Oh, not the same, my darling. At night wicked things go abroad. The
wild beasts prowl, bad men frighten the innocent, and the darkness
prevents help from coming so easily as in the day."
Blanche listened attentively. What she heard was evidently something
new, but it did not disconcert her. She explained to Zulma that when the
hour for rest came, she said all her prayers, put on the night-dress
which Pauline had given her--this was always white, in all
seasons--covered the fire in winter, closed the door in summer, but
never locked it, and then went to sleep.
"When my grandfather is in his alcove, I hardly ever awaken, but if he
is absent I always awaken at midnight. Then I sit up and listen.
Sometimes I hear the owl's cry or the bark of the wolf. At other times,
I hear the great noise of the tempest. Sometimes again there is not a
sound outside, except that of the waterfall. While I am awake I see at
the foot, of my bed the image of my mother. She smiles on me and blesses
me. Then I lie down and sleep till morning."
The above is a cold rehearsal of the words which the child uttered.
There was a pathos in them beyond all words that caused Zulma to shed
copious tears.
"Dear little thing," she exclaimed, clasping her to her bosom. "You
shall be no longer alone. I will take care of you. You will come with me
this very evening. Will your grandfather return to-night?"
"When he does not return, he tells me beforehand. When he returns, he
says nothing. He said nothing this morning, therefore he will return
to-night."
In the earnestness of her interview, Zulma had not noticed the flight of
the hours. When she looked up at the clock it was past five and the
darkness was gathering. Turning to the servant who, after attending to
his horse, had entered the room and taken a seat in a corner, she
ordered him to go out upon the main road and see whether any one was
coming. He came back with the information that several men were going
rapidly in the direction of Quebec, appearing very much excited, but
that none seemed to be coming from the town.
"It may be late Blanche," said Zulma, "before your grandfather returns,
but I will wait another hour. Then we shall decide what to do."
At six o'clock it was very dark and a slight snow-storm arose. Zulma was
getting anxious. She could not make up her mind to leave the child all
alone, and could not take her along without first seeing Batoche. On the
other hand, she must return to Charlesbourg to avoid any needless
anxiety on the part of her father. She was in the height of her
perplexity when she heard the shuffling of feet at the door.
"It is he," exclaimed Blanche, springing to the latch.
XV.
IN BATOCHE'S CABIN.
Batoche entered, supporting Cary Singleton under the arms. The latter
could stand upon his feet, but it was with effort, and he needed the
assistance of his companion. Zulma was thunderstruck on seeing the
wounded officer. He was no less astonished at seeing her. Batoche smiled
as he glanced over the room. But not a syllable was uttered, until Cary
had found a resting place in the easy chair before the fire. Then a few
hasty words explained the whole situation. Zulma burst into tears and
lamentations, as she took a seat at Cary's side, but he soon comforted
her by the assurance that he was not dangerously hurt.
"The doctor told me there was nothing broken. All I need is a few days
of rest. Batoche was at my side when I fell. He took care of me and
prevailed upon me to come out here with him."
Batoche smiled again while Cary spoke, then said in his turn:--
"The Captain would have preferred to go elsewhere to rest, and he
consented to come with me only when I assured him that you were away
from home."
"How did you know that?" asked Zulma.
"Oh, I knew it."
"You know everything, Batoche."
"I did not know that we should meet you in my humble cabin, but I
thought it was not impossible. When I saw your cariole at the door, I
was not at all surprised, but I did not tell the Captain of it."
"I was never more surprised and delighted in my life," said Cary.
Zulma was comforted. She totally regained her equanimity, and conversed
calmly with Cary. After a time, when little Blanche began to set the
table, she rose to assist and cooked the frugal meal with her own hands.
Later, she helped Batoche to prepare the liniments for the young
officer's bruises. Batoche was as expert as any medicine man among the
Indians, from whom indeed he had learned the virtues of the various
seeds and herbs which hung in bunches from the rafters of his hut.
A couple of hours thus passed away almost unnoticed. As eight o'clock
struck, Zulma arose from her seat and announced her intention of
remaining with her friend till the next day, when the nature of his
wounds would be better known. Cary remonstrated gently, renewing the
assurance that within a very few days he would be in perfect possession
of his limbs. On the other hand, Batoche encouraged Zulma in her
resolution. He declared he would regard it as a great favor if she would
accept the scant hospitality of his hut for one night. Little Blanche
said nothing, but she clung to the skirt of Zulma and there was an
appeal in her eye which the latter could not have resisted even if she
had been so minded. In her usual decided way, she ordered the servant to
drive back to Charlesbourg, inform her father why she had remained
behind, and return to learn her wishes the next morning.
"If I thought," said Batoche, "that Sieur Sarpy would be too anxious, I
would go with your servant, and explain everything."
"There is no need," replied Zulma. "My father is convinced that I would
do nothing to pain him, and I know that his high regard for Captain
Singleton, and his confidence in yourself, Batoche, will make him
completely approve, the course which I take. The chief point is that my
servant should return at once in order that my father may have no fear
that I have encountered an accident on the road."
And without further delay, the servant took his departure.
Quietude then reigned in the cabin. Little Blanche recited her prayers
to Zulma, and was put to bed by her, when she went to sleep directly.
Her strange manners and remarkable discourse had been a source of great
interest to Cary. Batoche retired to his alcove, whence he did not issue
for a long time. In the interval, Zulma and the disabled officer, seated
before the fire, indulged in a low-voiced conversation. Cary thanked his
wounds for this unexpected opportunity of pleasant repose. Going over
all the circumstances, he regarded this meeting with Zulma as something
providential. He had almost a suspicion that Batoche had had a secret
hand in bringing it about, so impressed had he become with the wonderful
resources of that singular man. Zulma was actually calm, but her heart
was full of gratitude and there was a fervour in her language which
showed that her sensitive nature was in harmony with the time and place
in which she found herself. Never had Cary seen her more beautiful. The
humbleness and poverty of her surroundings brought out into relief the
wealth and lordliness of her charms. She sat like an empress in her
wicker chair. The predominant thought with Cary, as he glanced at her
admiringly, was this--that it was an episode to be remembered through
life, an episode which he could not have expected in his wildest dreams,
and which would never recur again, to sit thus, a thousand miles away
from home, in a lonely hut, in the snow-piled forests of Canada, with
one of the loveliest and grandest women of God's planet. Over and over
again, as he took in quietly the significance of this fact, he closed
his eyes and delivered his soul to full and uninterrupted fruition.
There are brief hours of enjoyment--few and far between--which are full
compensation for years of dull, common-place existence, or even of
positive suffering. Cary was very happy, and he might have sat there,
before the fire, the live-long night, without ever thinking of his own
or his companion's fatigue. Zulma, while no less absorbed in her own
delight, was more considerate. When ten o'clock was reached, she called
Batoche from his retreat, and proposed to him the arrangements for the
night. After these were settled, she told her old friend that she had a
favor to ask him. She wished him to play the violin. He hesitated a
moment, then with a quaint smile fetched the instrument from the little
room. Taking his stand in the centre of the hut, he opened with a few
simple airs which only drew a smile from the lips of his listeners, but
all at once, changing his mood, he plunged into a whirlpool of wild
melody, now torturing then coaxing his violin, till he seemed
transported beside himself, and both Zulma and Cary fancied themselves
in the presence of a possessed spirit. They exchanged glances of wonder
and almost of apprehension. Neither of them was at all prepared for this
exhibition of wondrous mechanical skill, and preternatural expression.
Batoche closed as abruptly as he had begun. After a final sweep over the
strings that sounded like a shriek, he held his bow extended in his hand
for a moment, while his contracted features and fixed eye assumed an
expression of listening.
"There is trouble in the air," he said quietly, as he walked back to the
alcove to lay by his fiddle. "The day which has been so eventful shall
be followed by a night of distress. We have been happy. Our friends are
not so happy."
XVI.
A PAINFUL MEETING.
Deep silence followed these words. It was broken, after an interval of
about ten minutes, by a great commotion outside and the rushing of
Batoche to the door. Cary and Zulma remained in their seats awaiting an
explanation which was soon forthcoming. Batoche entered supporting on
his arm the drooping form of Pauline. M. Belmont followed, the picture
of anger and despair. When Zulma saw her friend, she uttered an
exclamation of pain and sprang forward to meet her. Pauline having shot
a burning glance at her and at the figure sitting beside her, placed her
hand upon her heart, and fell backwards in a swoon. Cary, forgetting his
wounds, hobbled to her assistance. The whole household was bustling
around the beautiful victim, as she lay unconscious in Batoche's easy
chair. But the attack was only transient. Pauline soon recovered
consciousness and strength under the action of restoratives, and the
company was enabled to understand what combination of strange
circumstances had thus brought them so unexpectedly together. M. Belmont
drew Batoche into the alcove, where they had a long and loud
conversation, the substance of which was that both the friends were in
imminent danger, the one of his life, the other of his liberty. M.
Belmont had been warned that day, through the friendly offices of
Captain Bouchette, that he must not receive Batoche into his house any
further. Batoche had lately been tracked in his nocturnal excursions to
and from the town, the authorities had been made aware of his doings,
and strict orders had been issued for his capture dead or alive. The man
who was on his heels was Donald, the servant of Roderick Hardinge, who
had apprised his master of the facts. Roderick, through delicacy, had
not ventured to mention the matter to M. Belmont, but had commissioned
their mutual friend, Bouchette, to do so. The Belmont house was
hereafter to be closely watched, and if Batoche or any of his companions
were found there, not only would they be seized, but M. Belmont himself
would be arrested and tried by court martial. This threat was bad
enough, but there was worse. M. Belmont had that day received an
anonymous letter in which he was told that a sentence of banishment from
the town was hanging over his head. Colonel McLean, commander of the
regulars, and the highest officer in the garrison after Governor
Carleton, had included his name in this punishment along with several
others. He had powerful friends in Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé, Captain
Bouchette, and Roderick Hardinge, but the force of circumstances might
render their interposition unavailable. M. Belmont did not know how much
truth there was in all this. But, according as the siege progressed,
spirits within the town were getting terribly excited, and he really
could not tell what might happen. At all events, the letter had
completely roused him, and he had decided, at whatever risk, upon coming
to consult Batoche. He had intended to come alone, but his daughter,
Pauline, guessing his intention, would not be left behind. She declared
she would follow her father through every contingency. They had both
contrived to escape from the town by the happiest combination of
circumstances. Now that he was out of the town, he would go further than
he had at first intended. He would ask Batoche's opinion about staying
away from it altogether, thus forestalling banishment. In the casket
which his friend had hidden for him, there were sufficient valuables in
coin to answer his purposes, and fully cover all his expenses for months
to come. Hitherto he had struggled hard against his fate and his
feelings for the sake of his daughter. Now that he was forced to act,
he would resume his liberty, and he hoped Pauline would become
reconciled to the change. He was not too old, and he had sufficient
bodily strength to carry his principles into practice if need be.
M. Belmont poured out his story with rapid animation, being never once
interrupted by Batoche. When he had concluded, he grew calmer and was in
a proper state of mind to receive the advice of his friend.
Batoche's words were few and deliberate. As for himself, M. Belmont need
not fear any further trouble from his goings and comings in the town. He
had no dread of the wolves, only hate. He laughed at their threats.
There was not an Englishman of them all cunning enough to entrap him. He
would continue his visits as he pleased, but he would never come near M.
Belmont's residence. As to M. Belmont's personal case, he would simply
advise him to maintain his ground, and not compromise himself by flight.
He knew that his friend was no coward, but flight was a cowardly act.
Then, there was Pauline to consider--an all-powerful argument. All his
life had been consecrated to her--let it be consecrated to the end. He
had made many sacrifices in her behalf--he should not recoil before this
greatest sacrifice. The dear child might acquiesce, but it would cause
her many a secret tear, and such as she were too good to be made
unhappy. Besides, M. Belmont should think of his compatriots. He was
their foremost man. If he fled, they would all be put under the ban. If
he deserted them, what would many of them do in the supreme hour of
trial that was coming?
M. Belmont listened attentively, almost religiously to the words of the
man whom he had of late so much learned to admire, and whose wisdom was
never more apparent than on the present occasion. He thanked Batoche
warmly, but failed to say that he would follow his advice. Instead of
that, he took him by the hand and drew him into the apartment where the
young people were seated.
They too had had an absorbing conversation. It was the sight of Cary
which had so suddenly unbalanced Pauline when she first entered the
cabin. From a hasty note which Batoche had smuggled into the town, she
had learned of his misfortune at the Intendant's Palace. She had been
feverishly anxious to hear more about his fate. This was one of the
causes why she decided upon accompanying her father in his perilous
journey that night. She knew she would meet Batoche and gather full
particulars from him. But she had no suspicion that she would see Cary
himself. And the presence of Zulma was another mystery. But after she
recovered consciousness, as we have seen, and, seated between them, had
heard the explanation of everything, not only did her spirits revive,
but she forgot all the other sorrows which waited upon her. Cary, too,
completely overlooked his own ailments in the joy of her presence. And
Zulma, without misgiving, without afterthought, was perhaps the happiest
of the three, because she partook of the pleasure which her two friends
experienced in each other's society.
Thus a full hour of unalloyed enjoyment passed away, after which the
conversation necessarily drifted into more serious courses. It could
hardly be otherwise in view of the circumstances by which they were all
surrounded. Youth and beauty and love cannot always feast upon
themselves. They must perforce return to the stark realities of life.
They spoke of the war and of all the miseries attendant upon it--the
sufferings of the poor, the privations of the sick, the anxieties of
parents, the pangs of absence, the rigours of the cold, and the terrible
sacrifices which even the commonest soldier is obliged to make. The two
girls listened with tears as Cary graphically recounted his experiences,
which, though relieved at times by touches of humor, were profoundly
sad. Then Zulma, in eloquent language and passionate gestures, gave her
view of the situation. Pauline was mostly silent. Her role was to
receive the confidences of others, rather than to communicate her own.
At times, in the march of discourse, the veil of the future was timidly
raised, but immediately dropped again, with an instinctive shrinking of
the three young hearts. That far they durst not look. The present was
more than sufficient for them to bear. A gentle, merciful Providence
would provide for the rest.
Who can gauge the effect upon the participants of this interview, in
such a place, at such an hour, and amid so many singular circumstances?
It was deep, searching, and ineffaceable, and the sequel of our history
will show that most of its culminating events were directly traceable to
this memorable evening.
When M. Belmont stepped forward with Batoche, he at once addressed
himself to Cary Singleton, asking his advice on the subject of the
conference just held in the alcove. The young officer, after blushing
and faltering at the suddenness of the appeal, replied in a manly
fashion that, although he was an apostle of liberty with pistol and
sabre, and entirely devoted to the cause, even to the shedding of his
heart's blood, he could not presume upon giving advice to such a man as
M. Belmont. He was too young, for one thing, and, for another, he was
not sufficiently acquainted with the circumstances of the case. He
added, glancing with ardour at the two fair girls beside him, that they
would be better able to determine the question, Mademoiselle Belmont
taking counsel of her father's welfare, and Mademoiselle Sarpy speaking
for the benefit of her dearest friend. Thus appealed to, Zulma declared
promptly that she had no opinion on the advisability of M. Belmont
remaining out of the town, but that if he resolved upon doing so, she
offered him, in the name of her father and in her own, a welcome home in
the Sarpy mansion. In fact, she insisted that she would allow her to
live nowhere else. Cary smiled and thanked Zulma with an approving nod.
Pauline had not a word to utter, but her answer was only too painfully
significant when she buried her face in her hands and gave way to a
tempest of grief. Perplexity was painted on every countenance. Batoche
alone retained his equanimity, and calmly, but with a tone almost of
authority, he said:
"M. Belmont, it is near midnight. There is a long road to travel. A
decision must at once be made. What do you say?"
M. Belmont still hesitated.
"Then, Pauline will decide. Come, my dear, shall we go or stay?"
Pauline immediately rose, and with a look of pathetic imploring,
murmured:
"Oh, father, let us go."
M. Belmont instantly complied. As Batoche signified his intention of
going along, in order to see them safe within the walls, Zulma earnestly
demanded permission to accompany him. M. Belmont, Pauline, and Cary
tried their best to dissuade her, but the old soldier silenced their
objections by at once according his consent. The wounded officer having
received the last attention for the night, the party took their
departure. They reached Quebec without incident, and Batoche readily
found an opening for them into the town from a ravine in the valley of
the St. Charles.
Zulma and Pauline embraced each other fervidly.
"Before we separate, I have a dreadful secret to tell you," said
Pauline.
"What is it, my dear?"
"Do you know who pointed the gun that wounded the Captain?"
"I do not."
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
"It was Roderick Hardinge."
The eyes of the two friends exchanged sparks of fire.
On the return journey, Zulma inquired of Batoche:--
"Do you know who fired the fatal gun against you from the walls?"
"I do."
"Does Captain Singleton know it?"
"He does not."
"Why did you not tell him?"
"On account of little Pauline."
XVII.
NISI DOMINUS.
Quebec was the centre of missionary labor for years before our Atlantic
coast was thoroughly settled. The church of San Domingo is older, having
been founded in 1614. That of Mexico dates from 1524, and that of Havana
was established at an earlier epoch still. But none of these can be said
to have exercised the same influence which distinguished the city of
Champlain. From Quebec came forth nearly all the missionaries who
evangelized the west and north-west. The children of Asisi and Loyola,
whose names are immortalized in the pages of Bancroft, all set forth on
their perilous wanderings under instructions issued from the venerable
college whose ruins are still seen beneath the shadow of Cape Diamond.
In the list of priests who resided at Quebec on the 1st October, 1674,
is found the name of Jacques Marquette. Little did that modest man then
dream of the glory which was soon to be attached to his labors and
explorations. By the discovery of the Mississippi not only did he add a
vast territory to the realms of his King, but he opened an immense field
to the zeal of his Bishop, and extended the boundaries of the diocese of
Quebec by thousands upon thousands of miles. Thus it happens that
Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis, New Orleans, Cincinnati, Louisville, and
all our Western cities, though they did not then exist, now occupy
ground which was under the jurisdiction of the great Bishop, Francois
Laval de Montmorenci, who was first raised to the See of Quebec two
hundred years ago. It is no stretch of fancy, but the literal truth--and
the picture is a grand one--that when Laval stood on the steps of his
high altar, in that venerable fane which has since been raised to the
rank of a basilica, he could wave his crozier over a whole continent,
from the Gulf of the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the
Red River of the North to the waters of Chesapeake Bay. Time has passed
since then, and religion has progressed in such astonishing rates that
sixty-two dioceses are at present said to have sprung from the single
old diocese of Quebec.
The sixth successor of Laval was Briand, the last French Bishop of
Quebec under British domination. All those who succeeded him were
Canadian born. It was to him that M. Belmont addressed himself for final
counsel. He found the prelate alone in his study, calmly reading his
breviary, while a pile of documents, letters and other papers lay on a
table at his side. He wore a purple cassock, over which was a surplice
of snow-white lace reaching to the knees. On his shoulders was attached
a short violet cape. A pectoral cross hung from his neck by a massive
chain of gold. The tonsured white head was covered by a small skull-cap
of purple velvet. A large amethyst ring flashed on the second finger of
the left hand. Monseigneur sat there the picture of serene force. While
all around him was uproar, within his apartment the atmosphere of peace
reigned with a visible, tangible presence. The seminary where he resided
was within a stone's throw of the barracks in Cathedral Square, but
whereas the one was the continual theatre of anxiety and excitement, the
other was the scene of perpetual confidence and repose. And yet, this
lonely man was a principal actor in the events of 1775-76. His influence
had been, and was still, omnipotent and all pervading. From his quiet
retreat he had sent forth a pastoral, at the beginning of hostilities,
commending loyalty to Britain, and exhorting all his followers to obey
the teachings and example of their curates. And his voice had been
heard. But for him, there is no telling how different the circumstances
of the invasion of Canada would have been. If Guy Carleton was Knighted
for his successful defence of Quebec, surely Monseigneur Briand should
have received some token of favor from those whom he so faithfully
served. Without the spiritual power, the material force could not have
availed, and the sword of the commander would have been lifted in vain
but for the Bishop's crook that scattered the initial obstacles of the
contest.
The prelate received M. Belmont with the utmost kindness, for they were
old friends. Placing his thumb within the closed leaves of his breviary,
he asked his visitor to unfold to him freely the object of his coming,
although there was an expression in his countenance which showed that he
divined the object. M. Belmont, who was agitated at first, gradually
acquired sufficient self-possession to give a full explanation of his
case. He detailed his grievances, his apprehensions, and explained the
radical change which he had undergone in his political opinions. He
ended by pointedly asking the Bishop whether he was not justified in
taking a decided stand.
Monseigneur had listened unmoved to the whole history, occasionally
smiling languidly, occasionally looking very serious. His reply was
given in the kindest tones, but there was the conscious authority of the
chief pastor in every word which he uttered.
"I too am a Frenchman, my friend," he said. "I have my feelings, my
prejudices, my aspirations, like every other man. If I consulted only my
heart, I believe you can guess where it would have led me. But I consult
my head. I remember that I have a conscience. I am reminded that I have
stern duties, as Bishop, to fulfil. The responsibility of them is
something terrible. The cardinal doctrine of our theology is obedience
to legitimate authority. The whole logic of the church is there. This
principle permeates every department of life, from the highest to the
lowest. It shines out through all our history. In the present instance,
its application is plain. The English are our masters. They are such by
the right of conquest--a sad right, but one which is thoroughly
recognized. They have been our masters for sixteen years. In that time,
they have not always treated us well. But there was ignorance rather
than ill-will. Of late they have guaranteed the rights of our people and
of the church. The Quebec Act is a standing proof of a desire of justice
on the part of the English Government. And how do these Boston people
regard the Quebec Act? Judge for yourself."
The Bishop here produced from among the papers on the table a
pictorial caricature of the Act.
"See," he continued. "This represents Boston in flames and Quebec
triumphant, and the print explains that thus popery and tyranny will
triumph over true religion, virtue and liberty. Among the other
personages, look at the kneeling figure of a Catholic priest, with cross
in one hand and gibbet in the other, assisting King George, as the print
again says, in enforcing his tyrannical system of civil and religious
liberty: What do you think of that? Does it look like the real
fellowship for us which they profess in their proclamations? Liberty and
independence are fine words, my friend. I love them. But they may be
catch-words as well, and we have to beware. Who assures us that the
revolted Colonies are sincere? After all, they are only Englishmen
rebelling against their country. Even if they are justified in
rebelling, does that fact justify us in joining them? And what good
reason have we to believe that they can better our lot? Will they
respect our religion, language, and laws more than do our present
masters? Reflect on these things. Do nothing imprudent. Remember your
family. Respect your reputation. You have a fortune but it is not yours
to waste by useless confiscation. It belongs to little Pauline. I
respect your sympathies, and believe that you will soon have occasion to
display them without premature action. This town will soon be attacked.
Either the besiegers will succeed or they will not. If they do not
succeed, you will be able to ease your heart attending to the sick and
wounded prisoners among them. If they do succeed, and Quebec is taken,
then Canada is theirs, and they will become our masters instead of the
English. Then the duty of us all will be clear, and you will have no
difficulty in making your adhesion."
The Bishop smiled as he laid down this common-sense proposition, and so
did M. Belmont who was thoroughly convinced by its logic. He thanked
Monseigneur for his strong advice, and promised in most fervent language
that he would carry it out.
"Do so, my son," added the Bishop. "I am pleased with your submission.
Before a fortnight has elapsed, you will have reason to thank me again
for the counsel."
M. Belmont got down on his knees, and the prelate, rising, pronounced
the episcopal benediction over his bent brow, giving him at the same
time the pastoral ring to kiss.
"Pray," said the Bishop, advancing a few steps with M. Belmont towards
the door, "pray and ask your pious daughter to double her supplications
that the right may triumph, and peace be soon restored. The shock will
be terrible."
"But the town is very strong," replied M. Belmont.
The Bishop smiled again, and raising his finger in sign of warning, he
repeated solemnly and slowly the grand lesson:
"_Nisi Dominus custodierit civitatem._ Unless the Lord keep the city, in
vain they watch who stand guard over it."
XVIII.
LAST DAYS.
Zulma spent the next morning in the exclusive company of Cary. Batoche
bustled in and out of the cabin, while little Blanche was kept busy at
household work. The wounded man had had a good night, and thanks to the
lotions and poultices of his old friend, felt much easier. About noon,
the whole circle was most agreeably surprised by the arrival of Sieur
Sarpy who drove up with his servant. He had come expressly to see Cary,
and, while condoling with him on his accident, testified to his joy that
he was on a fair way of recovery. He speedily commended the conduct of
his daughter under the circumstances, and, in a long conversation with
Batoche, took occasion to declare his cordial approval of the course
which he had thought fit to pursue in the war. This commendation was
very precious to the aged solitary, and he stated that it would serve as
an encouragement to persevere, doing all in his power to keep his
countrymen in the sacred cause of liberation.
Towards evening Zulma returned to Charlesbourg with her father, but on
the following morning they both came to Montmorenci again, and thus for
several days, until Cary having been pronounced by Batoche quite able to
travel, they prevailed upon him to pass the remainder of his
convalescence at the Sarpy mansion. Batoche, who had been kept in
idleness by the illness of his friend, favoured the removal, as it gave
him the opportunity of once more resuming his self-imposed military
duties. For the same reason, he readily allowed little Blanche to
accompany Zulma.
Cary remained five days with the Sarpys, and it is needless to say that
the time rolled by as if on wheels of gold. What added to his enjoyment
was that, through the medium of Batoche, Zulma managed to communicate
daily with Pauline, and to receive answers from her, in every one of
which she tenderly inquired about the young officer.
He would willingly have tarried longer in this delicious retreat, but at
the end of the five days, having learned that stirring events were being
prepared in camp, he decided that he was sufficiently recovered to take
part in them. Indeed, he declared that he would take part in them even
if he had to go on crutches. Zulma did not attempt to detain him. There
were tears in her eyes when she bade him farewell, but the beautiful
smile on her lips was an incentive to go and do his duty.
"If I fear anything, it is on your account," he said.
"Fear nothing," she replied. "I feel certain that we shall meet again."
On reaching camp, where his return was acclaimed by all his comrades,
Cary learned that the end was approaching. The great blow was at last to
be struck. The whole month of December had been wasted in a fruitless
siege, and Montgomery determined that, for a variety of imperious
reasons, he must attempt to carry the beetling fortress by storm. It was
a desperate alternative, but the single gleam of success which attended
it was all sufficient to cause its adoption.
XIX.
PRES-DE-VILLE.
Everything was in readiness. The only condition to be waited for was a
snow-storm. It came at length in the early morning of the 31st December.
The army fell into lines at once, and by two o'clock, Montgomery's
arrangements were all perfected. Ladders, spears, hatchets and hand
grenades were in readiness. The plan of battle was this. Montgomery, at
the head of one division, was to attack Lower Town from the west;
Arnold, at the head of the second division, was to attack Lower Town
from the east, and they were both to meet at the foot of Mountain Hill,
which they would ascend together, force the stockades on the site of
Prescott Gate, and pour victoriously into Upper Town. In the meantime,
Livingston, with a regiment of Canadians, and Brown, with part of a
Boston regiment, were to make false attacks on Cape Diamond Bastion, St.
John and St. Louis Gates, which they were to fire, if possible, with
combustible prepared for that purpose.
Let us first follow Montgomery. Advancing from his quarters at Holland
House, he crossed the Plains of Abraham, descended to Wolfe's Cove, and
thence marched up the narrow road between the river and the towering
crag of Cape Diamond. The night was dark as ink, a blinding snow-storm
raged, and the sharp wind heaped the way with banks of drift. Silently
the heroic column moved on, in spite of the terrible weather, until it
reached a spot called Près-de-Ville, the narrowest point at the entrance
of Lower Town. There it was stopped by a barrier which consisted of a
log house containing a battery of three pounders. The post was under the
command of two Canadians, Chabot and Picard, with thirty militiamen of
their own nationality, and a few British seamen acting as artillerists
under Captain Barnsfare and Sergeant McQuarters. Montgomery did not
hesitate. Ordering his carpenters to hew some posts that obstructed the
way to the barrier, he pulled them down with his own hands, then drawing
his sword, he put himself at the head of a handful of brave followers,
leaped over heaps of ice and snow, and charged. Sharp eyes were glaring
through the loop-holes of the block house, the match was lit, the word
trembled on tight-pressed lips. When the Americans were within forty
paces, Barnsfare shouted "Fire!" and a volley of grape swept down the
open space. Only one volley, but certainly the most fateful that was
ever belched from a cannon's mouth. No shot was ever more terribly
decisive.
The air was heavy with the groans of the wounded and dying. Thirteen
bodies lay stretched in a winding sheet of snow. Foremost among them was
that of Montgomery. There was a moment of silence, then the guns and
muskets of the block house poured forth a storm of missiles. But all to
no purpose, as the assaulting column, stunned by this first disaster,
fell back in confusion and retreated precipitately to Wolfe's Cove.
When daylight appeared, and news of the combat reached the authorities
of the Upper Town, a party under James Thompson, the Overseer of Works,
went out to view the field. As the snow had continued falling, the only
part of a body that appeared above the surface was that of Montgomery
himself, part of whose left arm and hand stood up erect, but the corpse
was doubled up, the knees being drawn up to the face. Beside him lay his
brave aids, McPherson and Cheeseman and one sergeant. The whole were
frozen hard. Montgomery's sword was found near by. A drummer boy
snatched it up, but Thompson secured it for himself and it is kept to
this day as an heirloom in his family.
Meigs, who served with Montgomery, pays this affecting tribute. "He was
tall and slender, well-limbed, of a genteel, easy, graceful, manly
address, and had the voluntary love, esteem and confidence of the whole
army. His death, though honourable, is lamented, not only as the death
of an amiable, worthy friend, but as an experienced, brave general; the
whole country suffers greatly by such a loss at this time. The native
goodness and rectitude of his heart might easily be seen in his actions.
His sentiments, which appeared on every occasion, were fraught with that
unaffected goodness which plainly discovered the goodness of the heart
from whence they flowed."
Montgomery had said: "We shall eat our Christmas dinner in Quebec."
Alas.
XX.
SAULT-AU-MATELOT.
Arnold moved his division from the General Hospital in the St. Roch's
Suburb, but not so secretly as Montgomery had done. The roar of cannon,
the ringing of bells, the rattle of drums aroused and alarmed the
slumbering town. His men crept along the walls in single file, covering
the locks of their guns with the lappets of their coats, and holding
down their heads on account of the driving snow storm, until they
reached the point of their attack in Sault-au-Matelot street. This is
one of the legendary streets of Quebec. It lies directly under the Cape,
and is supposed to derive its name from a sailor who leaped into it from
above. Creuxius has a prosier explanation: "_Ad confluentem promontorium
assurgit quod saltum nautæ vulgo vocant ab cane hujus nominis qui se
alias ex eo loco praecipitum dedit._" Of Arnold's followers the most
notable were Morgan's brave riflemen, and the whole column consisted of
five hundred men. He marched in advance of them, animating their courage
by word and example. His impetuous bravery led him to needless exposure
in the attack on the first barrier, in front of which he was at once
struck down by a musket-wound in the knee, and carried off the field
back to the General Hospital, where, to his intense chagrin, he soon
learned the defeat and death of Montgomery. The command then devolved on
Morgan, who, after a gallant charge, carried the first barrier, taking a
number of prisoners, and pushed to the second and more important one
further in the interior of Lower Town. On the way, his men scattered and
disarmed a number of Seminary scholars, among whom was Eugene Sarpy.
Many of these escaped to Upper Town and were the first to acquaint
Carleton with the grave condition of affairs. He instantly despatched
Caldwell with a strong force of his militiamen, including a body
commanded by Roderick Hardinge. Thus reinforced, the defenders of the
second barrier made so stout a resistance that Morgan was completely
baffled. In the darkness and confusion occasioned both by a murderous
enfilading fire and the fury of the snow-storm, he could scarcely keep
his men together. In order to recognize each other the Continentals wore
a band of paper around their caps, with the words _Mors aut Victoria_,
or _Liberty for Ever_, conspicuously written. But even this was of scant
avail. For the purpose of further concentration, Morgan decided on
abandoning the open street and occupying the houses on the south side,
whence he could keep up a telling fire on the interior of the barricade.
He thus obtained some shelter, but he could not prevent his ranks from
rapidly thinning under the artillery and musketry fire of the enemy. His
men fell on every side. Several of his best officers were killed or
wounded under his very eye. The brave Virginian stormed and raged, but
his most valiant efforts were futile. There was a propitious moment when
he might have retreated in safety. He chafed against the idea, and his
hesitation proved fatal. Carleton sent out from Palace Gate a detachment
of two hundred men, under Captain Laws, to march up Sault-au-Matelot
street and take the Continentals in the rear. The movement was
completely successful. Morgan was forced to understand his desperate
situation and yielded bravely to fate. He surrendered the remnant of his
shattered army, a total of four hundred and twenty-six men.
This was the dread culmination. The great stroke had been made and it
had disastrously failed. Quebec still remained towering on its granite
pedestal. British power still stood defiant. The Continentals had broken
their victorious campaign against this gigantic obstacle. Montgomery was
dead. Arnold was wounded. One half of the army was captured. The broken
remnant shrunk back to its quarters amid the snowbanks of the St Foye
road. Had Carleton been a great general he could have annihilated it at
one blow.
There never dawned a gloomier day over an army than the 1st of January,
1776, over the American forces before Quebec. All their chances were
gone, and they had to confront a menacing future. Still gloomier was the
fate of the four hundred brave fellows who were cooped up in the
Seminary. These prisoners were well treated by the British, but the loss
of liberty was a privation for which no kind offices could compensate.
Among them, of course, was Cary Singleton, who was not only a prisoner
but grievously wounded.
END OF BOOK THIRD.