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[Book Cover: THE BLACK EAGLE
BY G. P. R. JAMES.]
THE BLACK EAGLE;
OR,
TICONDEROGA.
THE
BLACK EAGLE;
OR,
TICONDEROGA.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "THE GYPSY," "RICHELIEU," "DARNLEY,"
ETC. ETC.
A NEW EDITION.
LONDON:
ROUTLEDGE, WARNES, & ROUTLEDGE.
FARRINGDON STREET;
NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.
1859.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
"WHAT NOW?"
CHAPTER II.
A DOMESTIC PICTURE.
CHAPTER III.
THE TWO YOUNG PREVOSTS.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BROWN MAIDEN.
CHAPTER V.
THE "WOODCHUCK" AND HIS OPINIONS.
CHAPTER VI.
EDITH PREVOST.
CHAPTER VII.
A WALK.
CHAPTER VIII.
SERIOUS CONSIDERATIONS.
CHAPTER IX.
HOW TO WALK THE WOODS.
CHAPTER X.
FEARS FOR THE FUTURE.
CHAPTER XI.
INDIAN REVENGE.
CHAPTER XII.
THE JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE COUNCIL.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ESCORT.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FIRE.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CAPTURE.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BETHROTHAL.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WALTER'S DISAPPEARANCE.
CHAPTER XIX.
CONSULTATION.
CHAPTER XX.
EDITH'S RESOLVE.
CHAPTER XXI.
WOODCHUCK.
CHAPTER XXII.
DELIBERATION.
CHAPTER XXIII.
EDITH'S JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XXIV.
OTAITSA.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE COUNCIL.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SELF-SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CONFERENCE.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FOOT-PRINTS.
CHAPTER XXIX.
WALTER'S PRISON.
CHAPTER XXX.
DISAPPOINTED HOPES.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE HONONTKOH.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FOREST.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOPE DEFERRED.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
BLACK EAGLE'S WIFE.
CHAPTER XXXV.
HOSTILE PREPARATIONS.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
LEAVE-TAKING.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE BLOSSOM.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE GREY DOVE.
CHAPTER XL.
DELIVERANCE.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE WAR TRAIL.
CHAPTER XLII.
LAKE CHAMPLAIN.
CHAPTER XLIII.
SISTER BAB.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE BLOSSOM AND THE BOUGH.
CHAPTER XLV.
EDITH'S CAPTIVITY.
CHAPTER XLVI.
FOREBODINGS.
CHAPTER XLVII.
INDIAN ALLIES.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE DEATH OF EDITH.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE CONCLUSION.
THE BLACK EAGLE;
OR,
TICONDEROGA.
CHAPTER I.
"Among the minor trials of faith, few, perhaps, are more difficult to
contend against than that growing conviction, which, commencing very
soon after the holiday happiness of youth has been first tasted,
becomes stronger every year, as experience unfolds to us the great,
dark secrets of the world in which we are placed--the conviction of
the general worthlessness of our fellow-men. A few splendid
exceptions, a few bright and glorious spirits, a few noble and
generous hearts, are not sufficient to cheer and to brighten the bleak
prospect of the world's unworthiness; and we can only reconcile to our
minds the fact that this vast multitude of base, depraved, tricky,
insincere, ungrateful beings, are the pride of God's works, the
express images of his person, by a recurrence to the great fundamental
doctrine of man's fallen state, and utter debasement from his original
high condition, and by a painful submission to the gloomy and fearful
announcement, that '_strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, and
few there he that find it._'
"If man's general unworthiness be a trial of our faith and of our
patience, the most poignant anguish of the torture is perhaps the keen
conviction of his ingratitude and his injustice--not alone the
ingratitude and injustice of individuals, but those of every great
body--of every group--of so-called friends, of governments, of
countries, of people. Vainly do we follow the course of honour and
uprightness; vainly do we strive to benefit, to elevate, to ennoble
our fellow-men; vainly do we labour to serve our party, or our cause,
or our country. Neither honour, nor distinction, nor reward, follows
our best efforts, even when successful, unless we possess the mean and
contemptible adjuncts of personal interest, pushing impudence, crooked
policy, vile subserviency, or the smile of fortune.
"Here am I, who for many arduous years laboured with zeal, such as few
have felt, at sacrifices such as few have made, and with industry such
as few have exerted, to benefit my kind and my country. That I did so,
and with success, was admitted by all; even while others, starting in
the career of life at the same time with myself, turned their course
in the most opposite direction, pandered to vice, to folly, and even
to crime, and trod a flowery and an easy way, with few of the
difficulties and impediments that beset my path.
"And what has been the result? Even success has brought to me neither
reward, nor honour, nor gratitude. On those who have neither so
laboured, nor so striven, whose objects have been less worthy, whose
efforts have been less great, recompenses and distinctions have fallen
thick and fast--a government's patronage--a sovereign's favour--a
people's applause. And I am an exile on a distant shore; unthought of,
unrecompensed, unremembered."
He paused with the pen in his hand, and the bitter and corroding
thoughts of the neglect he had endured still busy in his mind,
spreading into a thousand new channels, and poisoning all the sources
of happiness within him. An old newspaper lay on the table. Newspapers
were scarce in those days, and it had reached him tardily. Some
accidental traveller through the wilderness had brought it to him
lately, and he had found therein fresh proofs of the forgetfulness of
friends--fresh evidence of the truth of the old axiom, "out of sight
out of mind."
The perusal of this journal had given rise to the dark view of his own
fate, and of human nature which he had just put upon record. His was
not, in truth, a complaining spirit. It was not his nature to repine
or to murmur. He had a heart to endure much, and to struggle on
against obstacles: to take even bright and happy views: to rely upon
friendship, and trust in God. It was only when some fresh burden was
cast upon the load of ingratitude and falsehood he had met with, that
a momentary burst of indignation broke from him--that the roused and
irritated spirit spoke aloud. He had been a good friend, faithful, and
true, and zealous. He had been a kind master, looking upon all around
him as brethren, seeking their welfare and their happiness often more
than his own. He had been a good subject, honouring and loving his
sovereign, and obedient to the laws. He had been a good patriot,
advocating by pen and voice (without fear, and without favour) all
those measures which, from his very inmost heart, he believed were for
his country's welfare, and grudging neither time, nor exertion, nor
labour, nor money, to support that party which he knew to be actuated
by the same principles as himself.
But, with all this, no one had ever sought to serve him; no one had
ever thought of recompensing him. Many a friend had proved false, and
neglected the best opportunity of promoting his interests: many, who
had fed upon his bounty, or shared his purse, had back-bitten him in
private, or maligned him in the public prints; and, though there were
a few noble and generous exceptions, was it wonderful that there
should be some bitterness in his heart, as he sat there in a lowly
dwelling, in the midst of the woods of America, striving to carve a
fortune from the wilderness for himself and his two children?
Yet it was but for a moment that the gloom was suffered to remain--that
the repining spirit held possession of him. Though his hair was
very gray--rather with care than with age--body and mind were both
active, and his heart was quite young. Sometimes he could hardly fancy
himself anything but a boy; such was still his delight in the things
which had delighted his early youth. Neither were trifles--matters of
mere material comfort or discomfort--capable of annoying him in any
shape. He trod upon all petty annoyances; trampled them beneath his
feet. He had lived at ease, moved in refined society, enjoyed the
conversation of the wise, the high, and the noble; had servants to
whom he said, "Do this," and they did it. But the absence of all these
things, in his present solitude, affected him very little; sometimes
provoked a smile, yet rarely called forth a sigh. Not even solitude
oppressed him; though his was that kind of solitude which is the most
oppressive,--the want of congenial minds and congenial spirits.
Notwithstanding he had no near neighbours, the presence of man was not
altogether wanting, though it was not of that kind which makes society
for a mind like his. There was the shrewd, keen trader with the
Indians, the rough, uncultivated pioneer of man's advance into the
wilds, and an occasional wanderer like himself, seeking some place of
settlement upon the very verge of civilization; but even this last
kind of adventurer had none of those refinements which, at first
sight, seemed to render the recluse, who recorded the foregoing
reflections, as unfit for his position as man could be. Thus, there
were scarcely any whose thoughts could be linked with his thoughts by
associations either in the past or the present; none in habits or
manners upon a par with himself; none who in cultivation of mind or
general education could pretend to be his companion. The forest shut
him and his little household in from all the accessories which custom,
intellect, and taste had rendered precious.
Still, this privation had not affected him so much as might have been
expected. He had resources in himself. He had some books, some musical
instruments, and materials for drawing. He had his children too. It
was only the decay of hopes, the frustration of bright aspirations, a
bitter sense of the world's ingratitude, unmerited neglect, and the
vanity of confidence, that ever clouded his heart as we have seen it
clouded in the words he wrote. Those words were written in a record
kept of each day's thoughts and actions, a record most useful to every
man, in all circumstances; but, above all, to the disappointed, and to
the solitary. There, day by day, he can trace the progress he has made
against fate and his own heart--how far he has enlisted spirits of
thought upon his side against the desolating warfare of silent
hours--how far he has triumphed over circumstances, and conquered
repining. He can detect, too, how often he has weakly yielded, how far
he has fallen back before the enemy--what the ground gained, what the
ground lost--and can strengthen himself to better endeavour.
Strong resolution is a mighty thing, and he who sat there had come
with many a determination which remained unshaken, but yet to be
fulfilled. Part of every resolution is a dream; for no man can ever
say, "I will do thus or thus," with certainty; and the things which
frustrate purposes, and retard and deny fruition, are generally petty
obstacles and small impediments. The pebbles in our path weary us, and
make us foot-sore, more than the rocks, which only require a bold
effort to surmount. He trod firmly and strongly, however,
undiscouraged by all minor difficulties; and it was only the grievance
and oppression of spirit that ever caused him to sit down in sadness,
and pause in the struggle onward.
The house was a neat, though a lowly one. It bore traces of newness;
for the bark on the trunks which supported the little veranda, had not
yet mouldered away. Nevertheless, it was not built by his own hands;
for when he came there, he had much to learn in the rougher arts of
life. But with a carpenter, from a village some nine miles off, he had
aided to raise the building, and directed the construction by his own
taste. The result was satisfactory to him; and, what was more in his
eyes, was satisfactory to the two whom he loved best--at least, so it
seemed; although those who knew them, even not so well as he did,
might have doubted, and yet loved them all the better.
There is one sort of hypocrisy, and only one, which is lovable, which
is noble, and perhaps they practised it: certainly if they saw a
defect in anything that had been done, they would not have admitted it
even to their own hearts; for their father had done it: if they ever
felt a want, they never confessed it in their inmost thoughts; for
their father had provided all that his means allowed.
Love, even earthly love, has a saving grace in it that keeps many a
heart from destruction; and if, when a fit of gloom or sadness came
upon him, the father felt that it was wrong to repine at anything
which Heaven's will inflicted, he felt it the more bitterly wrong when
he remembered the blessing which two such children were, even under
the most adverse fate. He laid down the pen, then, with a sigh; and,
in that sigh, self-reproach had a share, as well as sorrow.
Hardly was the ink dry upon the paper, when the sound of a horse's
feet was heard without, beating with a slow and measured pace upon a
part of the narrow road where the rock had been uncovered. It was a
sound seldom heard in that little, lonely house; and the master
thereof hastily put by the book in which he had been writing, and
asked himself, "What now?"