THE HONOUR OF THE McNIELS.
“The McNiels are a bonnie race o’ men,” began the old Highlander,
“an’ those o’ them are yet livin’ wha honour their memory. The braw
Daniel, then ane o’ the Council o’ Londonderry, writ the resolutions o’
opposition tae the cowardly an’ treacherous Lundy, governor of Ireland
an’ tool in the hauns o’ James, an’ which, signed by twenty ithers o’
the council, was placarded in the public places an’ read to the people,
awakenin’ them tae that braw defence o’ the cause. Frae him are ye
descended, Norman, wi’ the best bluid o’ the MacDonalds in your veins.
“Forgie an auld man’s weakness, ma laddie, but it was a prood day when
my Jeannette became the bride o’ Archie McNiel, she ne’er dreamin’ o’
the cloud sae low ower her happiness, nor I o’ the day when I should
speak the name in shame. I ne’er minded my loneliness in seein’ her
gang awa’ frae the auld hame, for I had a son, Alick, the same age as
Archie, an’ he had come hame wi’ a bonnie bride. Weel micht I be prood
o’ my Alick, for he was a handsome lad, wi’ a’ the pride an’ bravery
o’ his grandfaither, the bauld but headstrong Chiel o’ Glencoe.[1] Yer
grandmither, Heaven bless her sainted memory, ne’er recovered from her
terrible experience in the mountain o’ Glencoe on that fearful day. She
died soon after yer mither was born, leavin’ her a wee, wee bairn in ma
airms.
[1] A stalwart Highlander who led his clan against the English in
the bitter struggles of those times, until he and his followers
were completely routed, those who were not killed defending
their homes and loved ones, perishing in the mountains of
hunger and cold. To this day the wild, gloomy Pass of Glencoe,
where this tragedy took place, is fittingly known in the Gaelic
tongue as the “Glen of Weeping.” Among the few who escaped were
Robert MacDonald, the youngest son of the chief, and his young
wife.
“The same year this double marriage in ma familie took place the good
Faither MacGregor started wi’ his flock for Ameriky, an’ at the same
time cum that awfu’ affair that finished wreckin’ an auld man’s life.
“The wicked James o’ England had deed in France, but he had left a son,
the Pretender, as ilka ane cam’ to ca’ him, wha tried to carry oot the
plans o’ his faither. Twa years afore Faither MacGregor an’ his pairty
started for Ameriky, this Pretender tried to stir up anither strife
amang the Scots, but miserably failed. But it cam’ oot that he left ane
ahint tae play the spy an’ betrayer. That ane was Archie McNiel! God
forgie that I should be the ane to say it.
“This traitor planned to hae the little band o’ emigrants waylaid an’
slaughtered while on their journey to the coast. But ane he took into
his confidence confessed the secret, and he was frustrated in his evil
ettle. In escapin’ he killed ane o’ the pairty. A fugitive frae that
day, withoot tellin’ Jeannette o’ his infamous doings, he fled wi’ her
tae the highlands. While in his concealment, ma lad, Alick, ran ower
him quite accidental like. Thinkin’ the braw laddie was after him, he
killed his brother! My bonnie boy lived long enough to reach hame an’
tell me what his brother had done, an’ also telt me that the ither had
fa’en under his avengin’ blow.
“In my double grief I searched for Jeannette, until I succeeded in
gettin’ her hame. She lived only lang enough for ye tae be born, when
her white soul fled to whaur weepin’ is na kent. She deed o’ grief an’
shame, Archie McNiel her murderer. Left alane wi’ Mary an’ you, I lived
for you twa until Mary married again, an’ goin’ to her new hame left
Rilma, a bit o’ a bairn, in my keepin’. I ne’er wist what become o’ her
frae that day. In ma loneliness I cam’ tae this country, hopin’ tae
begin life anew, and wi’ the sorrow left out.
“There, ma braw laddie, ye hae the truth o’ him wha should hae been the
licht an’ strength o’ oor lives, but wha flung a’ awa’. Do you wonder
I hate him, him wha twa times took my ain life by killin’ those dearest
tae me? Ay, I’m an auld man noo, but e’en in my weakness I rise to
curse his name!”
Here the narrator broke down, burying his face in his hands, while he
wept scalding tears. Norman crossed to his side, and, gently raising
his head, said, softly:
“I am sorry to have caused you so much pain, grandfather. I am
sorry for father’s sin. I am sorry for poor mother,――for you,――for
Rilma,――for all. Now that I know the sad truth, we will let the matter
drop. Poor, misguided father, he must have been deceived some way; but
I promise you his name shall not be spoken again.”
At this juncture the Woodranger, who had remained a silent listener
to this pathetic story, turned on his heel, and, with a look on his
countenance no man had ever seen, stole away as noiselessly as he had
come.
When his grandfather had become more calm, Norman told him of the
forenoon’s adventure, hoping thus to draw the other’s mind from the
affairs which it could be plainly seen were resting heavily on his
heart.
“I am going up to see Archie Stark,” said Norman, finally. “He can tell
us better what to do than any other man, and his advice will be more
trustworthy. His word will have more weight with the others, too. So
cheer up, grandfather, while I am gone. I will be back soon. Rilma, you
must keep as still as possible. There, I won’t be away long this time.”
In order to keep even with the events as they transpired, it will be
necessary to mention a little incident which occurred on that forenoon,
before continuing with the fortunes of Norman. Unknown to him, Mr.
MacDonald had not been the only one Gunwad and his companion had come
to Namaske to see on that summer day. On leaving the old Highlander,
they sought a humble cabin on the bank of a small stream tributary
to the Merrimack River, and known to this day in memory of its dusky
occupant, at that time the sole survivor in the vicinity of the once
powerful confederacy of the Pennacooks.
The two approached the bark dwelling with all the caution of hunters
on the trail. Gunwad’s companion led the way, dodging from tree to
tree, or crawling on his hands and knees through the undergrowth, where
it was thick enough to conceal his form, the deer reeve imitating
his example. Why the twain should have adopted this cautious way of
reaching the humble home of the solitary Indian, in a time of peace,
can only be explained by the fact that both were arrant cowards.
Christian, or Christo, as his name had been shortened, was what was
known as a “praying Indian,” and on amicable terms with the white
settlers. Still, there were always those who were so prejudiced against
the race as not to believe one of them under any circumstance. So
Christo had a hard time of it, though he went about his simple methods
of getting a living with apparent unconcern.
Gunwad now bore in his pocket a warrant for Christo’s arrest for
shooting deer out of season. Having failed in proving his charge
against Norman, and remembering what the Woodranger had said about the
bullet found in the deer belonging to an Indian, he had lost no time in
seeking his capture. This Pennacook being the only red man known to be
in the vicinity, he felt sure he was on the right track this time. He
had, in his own mind, two reasons for this cautious way of attack. He
was afraid, if he gave the Indian the opportunity, he might resist, or
else take to the forest, and thus escape.
The deer reeve, after half an hour’s loss of time, found that he
and his companion had taken their trouble for nothing. Upon closer
approach, the rude dwelling gave every appearance of being empty.
“He may be hidin’ inside, ready to shoot us down in cold blood,”
declared the deer reeve, with a shudder.
“The bird has flown,” said the other. “There’s no doubt of that,”
starting boldly toward the wigwam.
“I might have known he would take advantage o’ the time thet young
refugee cost me,” muttered Gunwad, following at the other’s heels.
“Let’s look in an’ see ef there’s enny trace o’ the red rascal.”
A few primitive cooking utensils, an old net for catching fish, a pair
of discarded moccasins, and a pile of boughs in one corner were about
all that caught the gaze of the intruders.
“He’s gone, sure ’nough,” acknowledged Gunwad. “So has my share in the
reward. They’re bound to beat me out’n it. But the redskin, if he ever
dares to come back, shall pay dearly for the trouble he has made me.
It’ll add interest, too, to my ’count with them Scot refugees, or I
don’t know black from white. Let’s git back to Cohas.”
As nothing better could be done, the couple started for the lower end
of the town, Gunwad but poorly satisfied with the result of his visit,
though he was well pleased with the fright he had given Mr. MacDonald.