It was a lucky and a stubborn sea-fight. More blood to the number
I never saw than fell on the _Lawrence_, eighty-three of our
hundred and two men having been killed or laid up for repair. One
has to search a bit for record of a more wicked fire. But we
deserve not all the glory some histories have bestowed, for we had
a larger fleet and better, if fewer, guns. It was, however, a
thing to be proud of, that victory of the young captain. Our men,
of whom many were raw recruits,--farmers and woodsmen,--stood to
their work with splendid valor, and, for us in the North, it came
near being decisive. D'ri and I were so put out of business that
no part of the glory was ours, albeit we were praised in orders for
valor under fire. But for both I say we had never less pride of
ourselves in any affair we had had to do with. Well, as I have
said before, we were ever at our best with a sabre, and big guns
were out of our line.
We went into hospital awhile, D'ri having caught cold and gone out
of his head with fever. We had need of a spell on our backs, for
what with all our steeplechasing over yawning graves--that is the
way I always think of it--we were somewhat out of breath. No news
had reached me of the count or the young ladies, and I took some
worry to bed with me, but was up in a week and ready for more
trouble, I had to sit with D'ri awhile before he could mount a
horse.
September was nearing its last day when we got off a brig at the
Harbor. We were no sooner at the dock than some one began to tell
us of a new plan for the invasion of Canada. I knew Brown had had
no part in it, for he said in my hearing once that it was too big a
chunk to bite off.
There were letters from the count and Therese, his daughter. They
had news for me, and would I not ride over as soon as I had
returned? My mother--dearest and best of mothers--had written me,
and her tenderness cut me like a sword for the way I had neglected
her. Well, it is ever so with a young man whose heart has found a
new queen. I took the missive with wet eyes to our good
farmer-general of the North. He read it, and spoke with feeling of
his own mother gone to her long rest.
"Bell," said he, "you are worn out. After mess in the morning
mount your horses, you and the corporal, and go and visit them.
Report here for duty on October 16."
Then, as ever after a kindness, he renewed his quid of tobacco,
turning quickly to the littered desk at headquarters.
We mounted our own horses a fine, frosty morning. The white earth
glimmered in the first touch of sunlight. All the fairy lanterns
of the frost king, hanging in the stubble and the dead grass,
glowed a brief time, flickered faintly, and went out. Then the
brown sward lay bare, save in the shadows of rock or hill or forest
that were still white. A great glory had fallen over the
far-reaching woods. Looking down a long valley, we could see
towers of evergreen, terraces of red and brown, golden
steeple-tops, gilded domes minareted with lavender and purple and
draped with scarlet banners. It seemed as if the trees were
shriving after all the green riot of summer, and making ready for
sackcloth and ashes. Some stood trembling, and as if drenched in
their own blood. Now and then a head was bare and bent, and naked
arms were lifted high, as if to implore mercy.
"Fine air," said I, breathing deep as we rode on slowly.
"'T is sart'n," said D'ri. "Mother used t' say 'at the frost wus
only the breath o' angels, an' when it melted it gin us a leetle o'
the air o' heaven."
Of earth or heaven, it quickened us all with a new life. The
horses fretted for their heads, and went off at a gallop, needing
no cluck or spur. We pulled up at the chateau well before the
luncheon hour. D'ri took the horses, and I was shown to the
library, where the count came shortly, to give me hearty welcome.
"And what of the captives?" I inquired, our greeting over.
"Alas! it is terrible; they have not returned," said he, "and I am
in great trouble, for I have not written to France of their peril.
Dieu! I hoped they would be soon released. They are well and now
we have good news. Eh bien, we hope to see them soon. But of that
Therese shall tell you. And you have had a terrible time on Lake
Erie?"
He had read of the battle, but wanted my view of it. I told the
story of the _Lawrence_ and Perry; of what D'ri and I had hoped to
do, and of what had been done to us. My account of D'ri--his droll
comment, his valor, his misfortune--touched and tickled the count.
He laughed, he clapped his hands, he shed tears of enthusiasm; then
he rang a bell,
"The M'sieur D'ri--bring him here," said he to a servant.
D'ri came soon with a worried look, his trousers caught on his
boot-tops, an old felt hat in his hand. Somehow he and his hat
were as king and coronal in their mutual fitness; if he lost one,
he swapped for another of about the same shade and shape. His
brows were lifted, his eyes wide with watchful timidity. The
count had opened a leather case and taken out of it a shiny disk of
silver. He stepped to D'ri, and fastened it upon his waistcoat.
"'Pour la valeur eprouvee--de l'Empereur,'" said he, reading the
inscription as he clapped him on the shoulder. "It was given to a
soldier for bravery at Austerlitz by the great Napoleon," said he.
"And, God rest him! the soldier he died of his wounds. And to me
he have left the medal in trust for some man, the most brave,
intrepid, honorable. M'sieur D'ri, I have the pleasure to put it
where it belong."
D'ri shifted his weight, looking down at the medal and blushing
like a boy.
"Much obleeged," he said presently. "Dunno but mebbe I better put
it 'n my wallet. 'Fraid I 'll lose it off o' there."
He threw at me a glance of inquiry.
"No," said I, "do not bury your honors in a wallet."
He bowed stiffly, and, as he looked down at the medal, went away,
spurs clattering.
Therese came in presently, her face full of vivacity and color.
"M'sieur le Capitaine," said she, "we are going for a little ride,
the marquis and I. Will you come with us? You shall have the best
horse in the stable."
"And you my best thanks for the honor," I said.
Our horses came up presently, and we all made off at a quick
gallop. The forest avenues were now aglow and filled with hazy
sunlight as with a flood, through which yellow leaves were slowly
sinking. Our horses went to their fetlocks in a golden drift. The
marquis rode on at a rapid pace, but soon Therese pulled rein, I
keeping abreast of her.
In a moment our horses were walking quietly.
"You have news for me, ma'm'selle?" I remarked.
"Indeed, I have much news," said she, as always, in French. "I was
afraid you were not coming in time, m'sieur."
She took a dainty letter from her bosom, passing it to me.
My old passion flashed up as I took the perfumed sheets. I felt my
heart quicken, my face burn with it. I was to have good news at
last of those I loved better than my life, those I had not
forgotten a moment in all the peril of war.
I saw the handwriting of Louison and then a vision of her--the
large eyes, the supple, splendid figure, the queenly bearing. It
read;--
"MY DEAR THERESE: At last they promise to return us to you on the
12th of October. You are to send two men for us--not more--to the
head of Eagle Island, off Ste. Roche, in the St. Lawrence, with
canoes, at ten o'clock in the evening of that day. They will find
a lantern hanging on a tree at the place we are to meet them. We
may be delayed a little, but they are to wait for us there. And,
as you love me, see that one is my brave captain--I do not care
about the other who comes. First of all I wish to see my emperor,
my love, the tall, handsome, and gallant youngster who has won me.
What a finish for this odd romance if he only comes! And then I do
wish to see you, the count, and the others. I read your note with
such a pleasure! You are sure that he loves me? And that he does
not know that I love him? I do not wish him to know, to suspect,
until he has asked me to be his queen--until he has a right to
know. Once he has my secret. Love is robbed of his best treasure.
Mon Dieu! I wish to tell him myself, sometime, if he ever has the
courage to take command of me. I warn you, Therese, if I think he
knows--when I see him--I shall be cruel to him; I shall make him
hate me. So you see I will not be cheated of my wooing, and I know
you would not endanger my life's happiness. I have written a
little song--for him. Well, some day I shall sing it to him, and
will he not be glad to know I could do it? Here are the first
lines to give you the idea:--
My emperor! my emperor!
Thy face is fair to see;
Thy house is old, thy heart is gold,
Oh, take command of me!
O emperor! my emperor!
Thy sceptre is of God;
Through all my days I'll sing thy praise,
And tremble at thy nod.
But, dear Therese, you ought to hear the music; I have quite
surprised myself. Indeed, love is a grand thing; it has made me
nobler and stronger. They really say I am not selfish any more.
But I am weary of waiting here, and so eager to get home. You are
in love, and you have been through this counting of the hours. We
are very comfortable here, and they let us go and come as we like
inside the high walls. I have told you there is a big, big grove
and garden.
"We saw nothing of 'his Lordship' for weeks until three days ago,
when they brought him here wounded. That is the reason we could
not send you a letter before now. You know he has to see them all
and arrange for their delivery. Well, he sent for Louise that day
he came. She went to him badly frightened, poor thing! as, indeed,
we all were. He lay in bed helpless, and wept when he saw her.
She came back crying, and would not tell what he had said. I do
think he loves her very dearly, and somehow we are all beginning to
think better of him. Surely no one could be more courteous and
gallant. Louise went to help nurse him yesterday, dear, sweet
little mother! Then he told her the good news of our coming
release, where your men would meet us, and all as I have written.
He is up in his chair to-day, the maid tells me. I joked Louise
about him this morning, and she began to cry at once, and said her
heart was not hers to give. The sly thing! I wonder whom she
loves; but she would say no more, and has had a long face all day.
She is so stubborn! I have sworn I will never tell her another of
my secrets. You are to answer quickly, sending your note by
courier to the Indian dockman at Elizabethport, addressed Robin
Adair, Box 40, St. Hiliere, Canada. And the love of all to all.
Adieu.
"Your loving
"LOUISON.
"P.S. Can you tell me, is the captain of noble birth? I have
never had any doubt of it, he is so splendid."
It filled me with a great happiness and a bitter pang. I was never
in such a conflict of emotion.
"Well," said Therese, "do you see my trouble? Having shown you the
first letter, I had also to show you the second. I fear I have
done wrong. My soul--"
"Be blessed for the good tidings," I interrupted.
"Thanks. I was going to say it accuses me. Louison is a proud
girl; she must never know. She can never know unless--"
"You tell her," said I, quickly. "And of course you will."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"That every secret that must not be told is the same as published
if--if--"
"If _what_?"
"If--if it tells a pretty story with some love in it," I said, with
a quick sense of caution. "Ah, ma'm'selle, do I not know what has
made your lips so red?"
"What may it be?"
"The attrition of many secrets--burning secrets," I said, laughing.
"Mordieu! what charming impudence!" said she, her large eyes
glowing thoughtfully, with some look of surprise. "You do not know
me, m'sieur. I have kept many secrets and know the trick."
"Ah, then I shall ask of you a great favor," said I--"that you keep
my secret also, that you do not tell her of my love."
She wheeled her horse with a merry peal of laughter, hiding her
face, now red as her glove.
"It is too late," said she, "I have written her."
We rode on, laughing. In spite of the serious character of her
words, I fell a-quaking from crown to stirrup. I was now engaged
to Louison, or as good as that, and, being a man of honor, I must
think no more of her sister.
"I wrote her of your confession," said she, "for I knew it would
make her so happy; but, you know, I did not tell of--of the
circumstances."
"Well, it will make it all the easier for me," I said.
"Ma'm'selle, I assure you--I am not sorry."
"And, my friend, you are lucky: she is so magnificent."
"Her face will be a study when I tell her."
"The splendor of it!" said she.
"And the surprise," I added, laughing.
"Ah, m'sieur, she will play her part well. She is clever. That
moment when the true love comes and claims her it is the sweetest
in a woman's life."
A thought came flying through my brain with the sting of an arrow.
"She must not be deceived. I have not any noble blood in me. I am
only the son of a soldier-farmer, and have my fortune to make,"
said I, quickly.
"That is only a little folly," she answered, laughing. "Whether
you be rich or poor, prince or peasant, she cares not a snap of her
finger. Ciel! is she not a republican, has she not money enough?"
"Nevertheless, I beg you to say, in your letter, that I have
nothing but my sword and my honor."
As we rode along I noted in my book the place and time we were to
meet the captives. The marquis joined us at the Hermitage, where a
stable-boy watered our horses. Three servants were still there,
the others being now in the count's service.
If any place give me a day's happiness it is dear to me, and the
where I find love is forever sacred. I like to stand where I stood
thinking of it, and there I see that those dear moments are as much
a part of me as of history. So while Therese and the marquis got
off their horses for a little parley with the gardener, I cantered
up the north trail to where I sat awhile that delightful summer day
with Louise. The grotto had now a lattice roofing of bare
branches. Leaves, as red as her blush, as golden as my memories,
came rattling through it, falling with a faint rustle. The big
woods were as a gloomy and deserted mansion, with the lonely cry of
the wind above and a ghostly rustle within where had been love and
song and laughter and all delight.