THE STARS TAKE A NEW COURSE.
Monsieur Riel had been all this while pacing up and down his room. A
tap came upon his door.
"Entrez. Ah, it is you, mon adjudant!"
"Oui, mon president."
"What tidings?"
"C'est accompli. The court-martial has found the prisoner guilty;
and he is condemned to be shot at one o'clock this day."
"Monsieur is expeditious! Monsieur is zealous. C'est bon; c'est bon;
merci, Monsieur." And the miscreant walked about delirious with his
gratification. Then he came over to where his adjutant stood, and
shook his hand; then he thrust his fingers through his hair, and half
bellowed, his voice resembling that of some foul beast.
"La patrie has reason to be proud of her zealous son," and he again
shook the hand of his infamous lieutenant. Then with a very low bow
Jean left the room, saying, as he departed.
"I shall endeavour to merit to the fullest the kindly eulogy which
Monsieur le President bestows upon me." The news of Stephens'
sentence spread like fire. Some believed that the penalty would not
be carried out, but others thought it would.
"If this prisoner is pardoned, people will treat the sentences of
the provisional authorities as jokes. Riel must be aware of this;
therefore Stephens is likely to suffer the full penalty." Several
persons called upon the tyrant and besought him to extend mercy to
the condemned man; but he merely shrugged his shoulders!
"This prisoner has been in chronic rebellion. He has set bad example
among the prisoners, assaulted his keeper, and loaded the Government
with opprobrium. I may say to you, Messieurs, however, that I have
really nothing to do with the man's case. In this time of tumult,
when the operation of all laws is suspended, the court-martial is the
only tribunal to which serious offenders can be referred. This young
man Stephens has had fair trial, as fair as a British court-martial
would have given him, and he has been sentenced to death. I assume
that he would not have received such a sentence if he had not
deserved it. Therefore I shall not interfere. There is no use,
Messieurs, in pressing me upon the matter. At heart, I shall grieve
as much as you to see the young man cut off; but his death I believe
necessary now as an example to the hundreds who are desirous of
overthrowing the authority which we have established in this
district." The petitioners left the monster with sorrowful faces.
"My God!" one of them exclaimed, "it is frightful to murder this
young man, whose only offence is resistance to insult from his
debased half-breed keeper. Is there nothing to be done?"
No, there was nothing to be done. The greasy, vindictive tyrant was
lord and master of the situation. When Riel was alone, he began once
more to walk his room, and thus mused aloud:
"I shall go down to his cell. Perhaps he may tell me where she is to
be found."
"Yes," he was sure that he would succeed: "I shall get his secret by
promising pardon; then I will spit upon his face and say, 'Die, dog;
I'll not spare you.'" So forth he sallied, and made his way to the
cell where the young man sat in chains.
"Well, malignant tyrant, what do you here? Whatever your business
is, let it be dispatched quickly; for your presence stifles me. What
dishonourable proposal have you now to make?"
"Monsieur Stephens, it seems to be a pleasure to you to revile me.
Yet have I sought to serve you;--yea, I would have been, would now
be, your friend."
"Peace; let me hear what it is that you now propose?"
"You are aware that it is ordered by court-martial, of which I was
not a member, that you are to be shot at one o'clock this day? It is
now just forty-five minutes of one. I can spare your life, and I will
do it, upon one condition."
"Pray let me hear what dishonour it is that you propose? I ask the
question out of a curiosity to learn, if possible, a little more of
your infamy."
"And I reply to you that I shall take no notice of your revilings,
but make my proposal. I simply ask you to state to me where this
maiden Annette has betaken herself?"
"Where you will never find her. That's my answer, villain and
tyrant; and now begone."
"Perhaps you imagine that the sentence will not be carried out. I
ask you to choose between life and liberty, and an almost immediate
ignominious death."
"I care not for your revenge, or your mercy. Once more I say, get
you gone." Then the ruffian turned round, rushed at the chained
prisoner, and dealt him a terrific kick in the side, after which he
spat upon his face.
"She shall be mine!" he hissed, "when your corpse lies mouldering in
a dishonoured, traitor's grave." The young man was chained to a heavy
table, but with a sudden wrench, he freed himself, raised both arms,
and was about bringing down his manacled hands upon the tyrant
miscreant--and that blow would have ended the rebellion at Prince
Albert,--when Luc burst into the room, seized the prisoner, and threw
him. While his brute knee was on Stephens' breast, and his greasy
hand held the victim's throat, Riel made his escape, and turned back
to his own quarters.
As for poor Stephens, when the tyrant and the brutal guard had left
the cell, he began to pace up and down, sorely disturbed. He had
somehow cherished the hope that the miscreant would be induced to
commute the sentence to lengthy imprisonment. But the diabolical
vengeance which he had seen in the tyrant's eye undermined all hope.
Some friends were admitted to his cell, and they informed him that
they had pleaded for him, but in vain.
And now we go back to Annette and Julie. Their horses soon took them
to the post, wherein Inspector Dicken had taken up his abode for the
nonce. They soon learnt that Captain Stephens and his friend had
been captured, and that both had been hurried off to the stronghold
of the rebel chief.
"Have any steps been taken for his rescue, monsieur?" Annette asked.
"None, I regret, have so far been practicable. I am detained on duty
here with twenty men; and expect an attack hourly. I would surrender
the fort and hasten to the rescue of my friend, but that the lives of
more than a hundred women and children here depend upon my remaining."
"And where, monsieur, are the nearest troops? Holy Mother of God!"
she exclaimed, "surely they will not permit le chef to put him to
death without making an effort to save him."
"Anything possible will be done, my brave lad. The nearest troops
are those of Colonel Denison. Here I will write you a note to the
Colonel. He is an officer whom I much admire. He is quick at
conceiving, and prompt and firmhanded in achievement. His force is
mounted and a few of his troopers thundering into the rebels' nest
would scatter them like rats."
"Speed, speed, monsieur," she cried, as she perceived the Inspector
pause to consider the terms in which he should address the Colonel.
"Let it be simply an introduction; and a mere statement that I have
rendered service to you and to your forces."
"So be it," he replied; and then rapidly pencilled the note, which
he put into her hand. A quick "Merci, merci," and the two were gone,
and speedily upon their horses' backs. They had not ridden far before
they espied a mounted party, evidently reconnoitering. Instead of
pursuing its course, the party, upon perceiving the two Indian boys,
turned their horses and rode towards the pair.
"Oh, Julie, I hope that they will not detain us. They judge, I
suppose, that we are enemies."
"But you can tell them that we are not, mademoiselle."
"Ah, Julie, the world is not as truthful and as free from guile as
you. They might not believe us. But I can at any rate show them the
Inspector's note."
"Who goes there?" shouted the officer of the approaching party.
"Friends, who want to see Colonel Denison immediately.
"Consider yourselves in my charge now," the officer said, fitting
very high and straight upon his horse.
"But will monsieur l'officier take us straightway to Colonel Denison?"
"In good time we shall see that officer," the starchy commander
replied.
"But, monsieur, I pray you to make haste. It is a matter of the
gravest importance that I should see him as speedily as possible. We
were riding at a mad pace before you joined us, as witness our
horses' flanks. This note I bear from Inspector Dicken to Colonel
Denison."
The officer took it, opened it slowly, and cast his eye over the
writing.
"I do not know whether this has been written by Dicken or not," he
said, "as I have never seen his writing." Then folding the note he
put it into his pocket.
"But that is my note, monsieur, my passport to Colonel Denison's
attention. Wherefore do you keep it?"
The officious military gentleman did not feel called upon to explain
why he had retained it. Now, all the while the party was at a halt,
and the agony that poor Annette was suffering may be imagined.
"Monsieur, I repeat," the girl said in a tone of agony, "it is of
the utmost importance that I should reach Colonel Denison without
delay. The life of one of your most valuable allies may depend upon
your haste."
"Would you favour me with the name of this valuable ally?"
"Captain Stephens: he who has been made prisoner by the personal
followers of the rebel chief."
"I have not heard anything about this capture," said Lieutenant
Unworthy; "and it seems to me, if the thing occurred word must have
reached us." This conceited block-head had not yet made a start.
"I implore you once again, monsieur, either to accompany us to the
presence of the Colonel or to let us go alone. I do not see that you
have any right to detain us. If harm comes to Captain Stephens you
will remember that his blood must be upon your head. You are either
stupid beyond words to describe, or bent upon showing your authority.
Will you come, or let me go, to the Colonel?"
"I want neither lectures nor impertinent speeches," replied the
numb-skull, putting on an air of severe dignity; nevertheless it was
plain that Annette had frightened him.
"Forward, march--tro-o-o-t!" and the troop set out for Camp Denison.
Whenever the word "W a-a-a-lk" came, the heart of the girl sank; but
despite the anxiety and annoyance, the camps of Colonel Denison at
last were in sight.
"Well, Unworthy," the Colonel said, "who are these boys you have
brought in?" The Colonel was intently reading the faces of the little
scouts, with his penetrating dark-grey eyes, as he asked the question.
"The largest of the two has a story about the capture of Captain
Stephens, and declares a profuse interest in the affairs of that
officer. I have taken the story with a pinch of salt; as I regard the
two a pair of spies."
"May I speak, Colonel Denison?" the girl said, touching the brim of
her broad hat respectfully.
"Most certainly, my lad. I shall be glad to hear anything that you
have to say." Then turning to Unworthy,--"He looks no more like a spy
than you do, man. Are you any judge of faces?"
"Well, monsieur," the girl began, her voice quivering, "l'officier,"
pointing to Unworthy, "says he believes that I am a spy. He has no
ground for such a belief, but he _has_ proof which must have taught him
otherwise. Inspector Dicken gave me a note of introduction to you. This
note l'officier has in his pocket, having rudely taken it away from me."
"Please, Mr. Unworthy, hand me this note." And as the officer did
so, Colonel Denison, knitting his brows, said, "Pray, sir, why was
this not handed to me at once?"
"Because I believe it is a forgery."
"Allow me, if you please, sir, to settle that point for myself."
Then hastily reading the note, he said, "Yes, my spirited lad, I have
already heard of your brave and noble deeds, and of yours, too,"
turning to Julie. "I am extremely sorry that any officer of the
militia force should so lack discrimination as to have acted towards
you as Mr. Unworthy has done."
Then the sweet girl, with a bounding heart, told him that she had
come to him for a force of twenty men; that if he gave these, she
could take them in a line as the bird flies to the stronghold of the
rebel chief.
"Your suggestion is good," Colonel Denison replied; "and I will give
you thirty men. Browninge," he shouted, calling to a clerical looking
officer who was standing among a group of brother officers, "get
thirty men in the saddle at once, and follow these scouts."
Browninge saluted, and went speedily to make preparations.
"Will you not dismount and take refreshments," the Colonel asked in
a kindly tone, advancing a step nearer the two boys.
Annette could not eat anything. She felt excited till the troop got
in motion. But Julie would not mind if she ate something. She was
hungry now because she had not taken much breakfast; and the sweet
gourmand was soon at work upon the choicest food in the Colonel's
larder.
"If my experience of character during the years that I have spent
upon the bench be of any value," the Colonel remarked in a low tone
to some of his officers, "I could give you some interesting
information about that scout," looking towards Annette, "and this
other one as well," meaning Julie. "These boys, trust my word, are no
more Crees than I am. Note the fineness of their features, and the
well-bred air and the grace of the one on horseback." The remarks of
the Colonel were brought to an end by the appearance of Browninge,
who saluted, and announced that he was ready to go.
Julie jumped up, like a kitten, from her feasting, vaulting into the
saddle; and while her mouth was yet half full of meat, thanked the
Colonel for his hospitality. Annette simply said;
"Colonel Denison, my words fail me now to thank you. But I wish you
knew my heart." He simply waved his hand, and wished the party _bon
voyage_. Then striking spurs into her horse, Annette led away across the
level prairie towards the stronghold of the hateful Metis chief.
"I shall now give you my opinion, gentleman," Colonel Denison said,
as the horses disappeared over a knoll; "these two lads were not what
they seemed. They were girls."
"Impossible!"
"Well, we shall some day know. What is more, I am satisfied that the
larger one has more than an ordinary interest in Stephens. She has
twice already saved his life; and I should not be surprised if she
were now to lay him once more under the obligation. Ha, truant," he
said, turning to one of his staff who had come from a nigh tree-clump,
where he had been writing, "you should have been here to see the
beautiful Metis maiden. She was in disguise, but her beauty was
not less divine than that of your own Iena. Fancy the feelings of
Stephens, when his own fortunes are bright, to have that beautiful
girl straying about this wilderness. I can imagine him asking, in
that passage which you gave me yesterday from your poem--
'My little flower amongst a weedy world,
Where art thou now? In deepest forest shade?
Or onward where the Sumach stands arrayed
In autumn splendour, its alluring form
Fruited, yet odious with the hidden worm?
Or, farther, by some still sequestered lake,
Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slake
Their noon-day thirst, and never voice is heard
Joyous of singing waters, breeze or bird,
Save their wild waitings.'"
[Footnote: This passage is from the pages of the recently-published
Canadian drama, "Tecumseh."--E. C. ]
Further conference was cut short by the hasty approach of a coureur
du bois. The colonel approached as the man dismounted.
"Captain Stephens has been tried by le chef's court martial, and is
condemned to be shot. Le chef has only a few braves and bois-brules
about him; and I could fetch you to the nest in an hour and a half by
hard riding."
When the coureur learnt that the force had been dispatched he rode
away again. And we shall likewise bid good-bye to the poet and the
colonel, and join Browninge.
"Now, then, my good lad," the lieutenant said, "we have turned out a
large force at your bidding to-day. Are you certain (_a_) that Captain
Stephens is at Chapeau Rouge; (_b_), that Riel is there; (_c_), that
there is such a stronghold at all?"
"Certainement, monsieur."
"It is well. Now, my men, keep in shelter of yonder bluff; for under
cover of it only can we approach the den unperceived. We are now
within three miles of the place." The men received the intelligence
with enthusiasm, and put their horses at best speed.
When only fifteen minutes more remained to poor Stephens, the
clergyman signed to the others to leave the room; and then, with his
hands folded before him, asked the condemned man if he had any
message to leave, or any peace to make with God.
No; he was not afraid to meet his God. He had wronged no man, and
kept within the bounds of the laws set for his kind. But he had a
message to leave--it was enclosed in a letter which he put into the
hand of the minister.
"It is for Annette Marton. Oh, my God. We have been only two days
betrothed. It is very hard to die."
"This doom was ordained for you, and you must try to meet it like a
man."
"Oh, it is not death I fear. That is nothing. But, ah, to leave my
love." After he had passed his hands across his temples, as if to
clear his understanding, he said, in a voice grown low and calm--
"There is also upon the table a note to my sister, Aster. That is
all I have to say."
"Will you not pray with me awhile?"
"No; my heart is right; the rest matters not."
There was now a rude bustling at the door; the rusty key was plied,
and with a harsh scream the bolt flew back. Then the evil-looking Luc
entered, followed by three others, all of whom seemed partially
intoxicated.
"Your hour has come, young man," Lestang said, in a brutal voice.
"Let us be jogging."
Stephens then bade good-bye to the visitors who had re-entered; to
the clergyman, and to one or two prisoners detained for minor
offences. His face was deathly pale, but his eye was steadfast and
his step firm.
Beyond the entrance to the building, about an arrow's flight, was
drawn up a firing party; and midway between these and one of the
bastions of the fort was an open coffin. Thither Luc and his guard
led the condemned man.
"Stop a moment till I bind you," Luc said, taking a hempen cord from
about his waist. Then he fastened Stephens' hands behind his back,
and with the most devilish cruelty tied the cord far tighter than
might be needed for the most refractory culprit. Indeed, his arms
were almost dislocated at the shoulders, and when the brutal jailer
saw the corners of his mouth twitch under the torture, he said, with
a bestial sneer--
"It'll not hurt long. Should be patient."
These words had barely escaped the fellow's lips when a terrified
cry went up from a score of throats gathered about; and immediately a
scene of the wildest confusion prevailed.
"Les soldats! Les soldats!" shouted one and all: and immediately the
little Cree scout was seen upon the earthworks, the eyes of her horse
gleaming, spray drifting from his open jaws. Close following Annette
came Lieutenant Browninge waving his sword above his head, and
shouting,
"Down with the rebels!" at the same time slashing the scurrying
enemy in such a fashion with his sword as would gladden one's heart.
As for Annette, her quick eye at once showed her how the situation
stood: her lover, his hands bound, a black cap over his eyes, a
coffin beside him. Luc, the jailer, and chief of the executioners,
remained at his post as long as possible; and at the first outburst
of the din had called upon his party to fire. But these
mahogany-complexioned executioners scurried like rats at the first cry.
Most of them carried their arms with them, but Luc perceived a musket
lying in a corner of the drill square. This he seized and levelled at
Stephens, pulling the trigger, after careful aim. The rusty weapon
missed fire, and the intrepid half-breed began hastily to chip the
flint with the back of his sheath-knife; but while he was engaged in
this laudable preparation, Annette came over the earthworks like a
bird, smote him with the handle of her whip upon the crown, and sent
him sprawling in the dust. With another bound she was at her lover's
side; and slipping from her horse, she pulled off the hideous cap,
cut his thongs,--and then the hero-darling waited to be taken to his
heart.
The change in his fortunes was so sudden, and so amazing,--passing
at one bound from the grave's edge back to freedom and love, that he
was for some seconds unable to realize it, and his eyes and brain
swam with a sense of happiness that reached delirium. But gradually
it all began to grow clear: the scurrying figures of his captors and
jailers; the shouting of mounted soldiers; the wistful eyes of his
beloved looking at him.
"Ah, Annette; you again; my guardian angel!"
It took but a few minutes to restore order. It was ascertained that
Riel and Jean had made their escape while Browninge's horse was yet
half a mile away from the post; but they made their exit in secrecy.
"If we give the alarm," Kiel muttered, as he prepared to get into
the saddle, "there will be an instant stampede, and the execution
will be stayed."
"I agree with the decision of mon chef. Let Luc remain; he has
courage enough to have the thing done with the soldiers at the very
stockades." And the two rode away helter-skelter, till a dozen miles
lay between them and their treason nest.
"The rebel chief is gone; he skurried away half an hour ago," was
the tidings that one of the men brought to Browninge. That officer
was not surprised; and ordered that the prisoners, which numbered
about a dozen in all, be put in carts, and escorted by a guard of
cavalry back to Camp Denison.
They were all tired, and it was resolved that the horses be
permitted to rest for a couple of hours before returning.
"I can find the way back to your colonel's camp, monsieur Browninge,
as easily by night as in the daylight." Riel and his greasy followers
lived like so many swine in a sty; but several brace of quail and
chicken, and quarters of elk were found, which the two Cree boys at
once began to prepare. A few loaves of bread were found, and a
tolerable side of bacon, from all of which, with the pure, cold water
that gurgled out of the side of a nigh ridge, a sumptuous meal was
promised.
Stephens objected to the Cree boys doing the drudgery, but Annette
besought ham so sweetly with her eyes to let "the little scouts" do
it, that he desisted. His glance, as he followed every movement of
the maiden, had as much of mute adoration, reverent and tender, as
ever has been seen in the eyes of a man. How little he had known the
worth of this girl, when he toyed with her hair and put a straw into
her dimples at her father's house! I suppose he regarded her as
thoughtful men regard most girls before they become enslaved either
to their fascination or their gifts. I do not care to write an
ungallant speech, but I do say that I have so far in life looked upon
men much as I do upon women; and I assume every man to be a fool till
he has proven himself otherwise to _me_.
The sun was setting when the order to saddle was given; and with the
two scouts leading, the party set out along nearly the same route by
which they had come in the morning. A darkness that, without a flight
of imagination, might be called "dense," pressed upon the prairie,
and only a few small and feeble points of star-light were to be seen.
But on a sudden a mellow, green-tinted light burst out of the
northern sky with a brightness that showed the startled expression
upon every face. The horses pricked up their ears, and looked for a
moment at the radiant, quivering, northern sky.
I have not bothered my readers with much description so far, and I
trust that they will forgive me if I pause for a moment to do so now.
After this great, aerial conflagration had continued for the space of
five minutes, the light went out from the whole sky as suddenly and
as entirely as though it were a lamp which some one had extinguished.
After a few seconds of darkness, here and there a long rib of yellow
light appeared; then these disappeared, and once more the party was
in the pitchy dusk. Suddenly, however, fully half the heavens burst
into flame again.
In the south the light was soft, and seemed unconnected with that of
the east and north. The whole would remain for a few seconds
quiescent, save for some slight, erratic pulsations, but all would at
once madly undulate and quiver from end to end. It seemed at such
times like a mighty cloth woven of the finest and softest floss,
being violently shaken at both ends by invisible hands. But the most
curious part of the phenomena was the noise, like the cracking of
innumerable whips, which accompanied the pulsations in the auroral
flame. [Footnote: Captain Huysbe mentions having heard this peculiar
noise during auroral displays in the North-West; and Mr. Charles Mair
and other authorities add their testimony to the same fact.--E. C.]
The corruscations were produced in the valleys, among the bluffs, and
far out over the face of the prairie. To lend terror to the
stupendous and awful beauty of the scene, a ball of fire came out of
the southern sky, passed slowly across the belt of agitated flame,
and disappeared over the crest of a distant hill.
Above, the heavy masses of auroral cloud now began to assume the
shape of a mighty umbrella, the enormous ribs of weird light forming
in an apex above the heads of the party, and radiating towards all
points of the compass. Sometimes these ribs would all shake, and then
blend; but they would speedily rearray themselves in perfect and
majestic symmetry. It was a most weirdly-beautiful sight, riding
along the still and boundless prairie, when the merry dancing ceased
for a moment, to see this stupendous dome of fluffy, ghost-like light
suspended over their heads. For an hour they continued looking upon
it; upon the yellow of the level prairie, and the yellow and gloom of
the knolls and hollows. Then there was a universal flash so sudden as
to be terrible; then a darkness equally as sudden. Not the faintest
glow was there anywhere in all the wide heavens. It seemed as if God
had blown out the mysterious light.
Stephens rode beside his love; and when the light went out of the
sky, if Lieutenant Browninge had been concerned with the doings of
the leaders, he would have been amazed to see the rescued captain
lean over and deliberately kiss the Cree scout upon the lips. When
the white sides of the tents of Capt. Denison appeared in view,
Annette halted, and said that she and her brother must now ride in
another direction.
"My brave boy, if by that term I rightly address you," Browninge
said, "I wish that you would accept the hospitalities of our camp;"
but the scout refused, and after a few moments in conversation with
Captain Stephens, rode away.
Meanwhile affairs had fallen out much as Little Poplar predicted.
Captain Beaver, after thorough consideration of the matter, decided
that it would never do to allow his men to return to Ontario without
having a "brush with the Indians." He therefore opened correspondence
with Major Tonweight, pointing out the expediency of making an attack
upon Little Poplar. "He is upon his reserve, it is true," Beaver
wrote, "but he has gathered his men together for the purpose of
marching on Hatchet Creek, and there effecting a junction with the
rebel Metis. If you permit me to run down and give them a good
trouncing, it will make an end of the contemplated league."
"Our policy," replied Tonweight, "is not to antagonize but to
conciliate; to treat all as friends till they prove themselves to be
enemies."
"But you will pay dear for your generous theory if this man, Little
Poplar, succeeds in joining the rebels. And I assure you that the
savage is now making ready to march.".
"The matter is in your own hands, then," Tonweight replied. "If all
be as you say, you must consult your own judgment, and shoulder the
responsibilities."
"Hurrah!" Beaver shouted. "Hurrah! Now then, boys, you'll have a
brush. Get ready for a march. You know I am only supposing a case
against these Indians," he said turning to a brother officer.
"Good God! is this outrage to occur!" Col. Denison exclaimed, when a
Coureur-des-bois brought him the tidings.
And so, the sanguinary Beaver made ready to start.
"How much provisions do we need, Sir?" the purveyor asked.
"You do not need any. Let each man eat a hearty meal, and put some
bread into his pocket. It is only going to be a short job. I'll kill
a hundred or so," he said aside to a subordinate officer, "and then
come straight back." Then he put himself at the head of his column,
and swooped towards his prey.
So when Little Poplar, on the morning after the rescue of Captain
Stephens, met the two maidens, there was great sorrow in his face.
"I have to fight your friends," he said, "but there is nothing else
left me for choice. Beaver and his men are at this moment marching
towards my reserve, though all my braves went back to peaceful
occupation upon the assurance from English officers that no harm
would come to them; but, as I have already stated, Beaver and his
young men want to kill a lot of Indians, and return home great
heroes. But they will make a grievous mistake. I shall lead them into
a defile of swamp and bush tangle, where every one of the number will
be at my mercy. I believe that this foolhardy man regards my
followers as a band of dogs, whom he can kill as they run. But my men
know not what fear is." Then kissing Julie, and bowing sorrowfully to
Annette, this chief went away.
That very day, when midway upon his march, Captain Beaver was joined
by two Cree scouts, one of whom besought him for a moment's interview.
He had no time to waste; but if the scout had anything very
important to communicate he would listen.
"Then, Monsieur," Annette began, "my advice is that you call a halt
of your troops. Little Poplar is in strong position upon his reserve;
the swamps approaching his ground are quagmires; the bush is a tangle
through which the rabbit may scarcely pass. The chief's men are
numerous, and war is their occupation. They will destroy Monsieur's
force."
"Indeed, I am at a loss to know why I should be an object of such
solicitude to an Indian scout, whose sympathy and interest must be
with those savages, against whom I now march." And without further
parley he dismissed the lad.
That afternoon mirrors flashed signals from bluff to bluff; our men
were surrounded by the enemy; and at the set of sun their lives lay
at the-mercy of the men whom they had come to trounce. Julie was at
the side of her lover, and tears were in her eyes.
"I beseech my chief for the sake of his love for me to desist, and
allow these rash soldiers to depart." Her chief stood with arms
folded upon his breast. There was sorrow on his face; but there was
scorn there, too, as he turned affectionally to the sweet pleader.
"These men came down to massacre my people, that they might
henceforth be clad with glory. They have not destroyed any of my men;
but their dead strew the plain. They are at my mercy; so utterly,
too, that if I desire it, not a man of all the host shall return to
give tidings to his friends. You ask me to stay my hand. Ah! It is
hard. But you ask it; you, my little lover-playmate of the sunny
Saskatchewan. I consent!" Then he strode down among his men, and
ordered them to cease. Naught-but the ascendancy which the splendid
chief had gained over his followers, through his wisdom and his
prowess, could have prevailed upon them to stay their hand, now that
the men who had broken solemn faith were at their mercy. But they
unstrung their bows, shouldered their muskets, and permitted the
invaders to depart. Then Julie knelt at her lover's feet, and kissed
his hand with reverent gratitude; and he laid his hand upon her head,
and bade her arise.
Before I leave this feature of my narrative I may state that Captain
Beaver subsequently sought to justify this wanton breach of faith
with the Indians, upon the ground of military policy; affirming that
the "punishment" which he inflicted upon the chief prevented the
latter joining forces with the rebel Metis. As to the punishment
there was very little inflicted upon the Indians;--it was
emphatically conferred in another direction. As to the statement that
the attack prevented Poplar from joining the rebel forces at Hatchet
Creek, the same is absurdly untrue. Little Poplar did actually set
out, after the attack, to join the bois-brules, and he deliberately--I
was going to say contemptuously--exposed himself to the flank attack
by Beaver's men, of which movement, we are told, he had been so much
in dread. In due time, as the chief was pursuing his march, tidings
came to him that the Metis had been overwhelmed. Then he
surrendered;--and thereafter for many a dreary month there was no
happiness for Julie. I may as well anticipate events, and say that this
dear girl brought it emphatically to the knowledge of the authorities
that her beloved chief early in the war had served the white people in
the hour of peril; and that the offence for which he stood committed
now had been forced upon him by the bad faith of a Canadian militia
officer. At last he was released; and holding his hand, apparelled in
proper attire, she walked out by his side to a little cottage wherein
a priest stood waiting to wed the two. Her happiness was very great,
as may be guessed when I state that in each of her beautiful eyes a
tear glimmered like you see a drop of rain glitter upon the thorn
bush, when the storm has ended, and the sun shines. Her lover took
her many miles up the Saskatchewan, where she said she would remain
till Annette got "settled." A friend has lately been at her cottage,
and he tells me that she has a "cherub of a baby," absurdly like
herself in all save its skin, which is rather of a mahogany cast. The
chief and his petite wife are very happy; and many a time under the
blossoms of their own orchard, or when the wind howls like a belated
wolf, they discuss the alternation of sorrow and joy which fell to
their lot when the two maidens went disguised as scouts over the
unbounded prairie. My great wish is that all the pretty and
noble-harted girls of my acquaintance may be as happy as my sweet
Julie.
As for Annette, when the battle of Saw-Knife Creek ended, she was
waiting for Julie to join her. Her hand was upon her horse's neck,
and she was leaning against the animal thinking of her lover.
"Ah, at last!" The terrible words and the voice were but too plain.
Turning she saw the rebel chief, triumph, passion, and revenge in his
eyes. By his side were several Metis with muskets presented, ready to
fire at the girl if she uttered a cry, or made resistance. Then they
bound her arms, and set her upon her horse, which one of the chief's
followers led by the bridle. They rode as fast as the ponies could
travel across the prairie; and Annette's heart sank, and all hope
seemed to die out of her life, as she realized, that the miscreants
were hurrying towards the valley of Dismal Swamp where abode Jubal,
the hideous hag.
As the party hurried along the skirt of the ridge flanking the swamp
and the inky stream, lo! there came to her ears the notes of a bird's
song. It was the guardian swan; and joy and hope crept into the
maiden's bosom.
"Hear you yonder singing, my pretty bird?" the hideous chief asked,
with a foul sneer. "Its song is always intended to console and
reconcile maidens to their lovers."
But she turned her head away with loathing, and answered him not.
Then came a sudden trampling; swords gleamed; eyes flashed in the
dusk; and before the helpless girl could gather her routed senses,
the beastly chief was sent sprawling from his horse with a sabre-blow;
his followers were routed; and she was free.
"My own beloved," were the words whispered in her ear, and warm lips
were pressed upon her mouth. "We no more part, my darling--never,
never more."
They rode along through the night, he telling of his love, and
fashioning the future; she listening with bright eyes, and a
happiness too great for words.
"You have asked me, darling, why I love _you_ so? How it comes that of
all the girls whom I have known, I should give my heart to you entire
and for ever? Well, darling, I shall say naught of your heroism, which
would alone make you illustrious and beloved in our historic annals for
all time to come; but I shall regard you as a maiden who has never seen
the brunt of battle, or done a deed of warlike valour. You have still
enough of sterling worth to win my heart ten thousand times. You are
beautiful, dear, and you are good as you are beautiful. You are true,
because in you there is naught of affectation or of desire _to act a
part;_ and there is on your lips no speech that is not the true
expression of your thought. This I conceive to be the highest
tribute-gift that man can offer a woman."
After all the turmoil and the besetting dangers this was very sweet
to her;--and it was sweet to him.
In a little the rebellion ended, and Stephens came to the house of
Annette's aunt, and wedded his beloved there. Then he took her to
wild, sweet places in the Territories; and after the lapse of a few
weeks, went with her to the east, where both pleaded for the life of
Colonel Marton. All men worshipped her when she came to our cities;
and when she had obtained the boon for which she had come amongst us,
she went away to the west again. She is happy now as woman can be,
and my latest information is that Julie has prevailed upon her chief
to change his place of abode and come with her to live, for the
remainder of their days, close to the abode of her beloved mistress.
Annette is now the most popular woman in the North-West Territories.
Her beauty seems to have attained a fuller development since we knew
her as a maiden. Her mole is a deeper brown, I really believe, and
her dimple deeper. But best of all her happiness is as well assured
as her beauty.
THE END.
NOTES.
The preceding story lays no claim to value or accuracy in its
descriptions of the North-West Territories. I have never seen that
portion of our country; and to endeavour to describe faithfully a
region of which I have only a hearsay knowledge would be foolish.
I have, therefore, arranged the geography of the Territories to suit
my own conveniences. I speak of places that no one, will be able to
find upon maps of the present or of the future. Wherever I want a
valley or a swamp, I put the same; and I have taken the same liberty
with respect to hills or waterfalls, The birds, and in some instances
the plants and flowers of the prairies, I have also made to order.
I present some fiction in my story, and a large array of fact. I do
not feel bound, however, to state which is the fact, and which the
fiction.
I have not aimed at dramatic excellence in this book. Change of
scene, incident and colour are the points which I had in view. There
is not any sham sentiment in the book.
I have introduced a few passages, with little change from a small
volume, entitled "The Story of Louis Riel." These passages in no way
effect the current of my story; but as I thought that they had some
merit, I had no compunction in diverting them to present uses. The
most notable authors have done this sort of thing; and chief amongst
them I may mention Thackeray.
I beg likewise to say a word with respect to the book known as "The
Story of Louis Riel." That volume has been quoted as history; but it
is largely fiction. There is no historic truth in the story therein
written by me that Louis Riel conceived a passion for a beautiful
girl named Marie; and that he put Thomas Scott to death, because the
maiden gave her heart to that young white man. I have seen the story
printed again and again as truth; but there is in it not one word of
truth. This much I am glad to be able to say in justice to the memory
of the miserable man, who has suffered a just penalty for his
transgressions. I never intended that the work in question should be
taken as history; and I should have made that point clear in an
introduction, bearing my name, but that I was unwilling to take
responsibility for the literary slovenliness, which was unavoidable
through my haste in writing, and through Mr. D. A. Rose's hurry in
publishing, the work. It occupied me only seventeen days; and I did
not see my proofs.
Once more: one of the leading characters in that book, Mr. Charles
Mair, is most unjustly treated. Him I held as one of the prime agents
in the rebellion of 1869; but nothing could be further from the fact.
His pen and his voice had always advocated justice and generosity
towards the Indians and the Metis. As to his sentiments respecting
the Indians, I need but refer to the drama of his "Tecumseh," which
Canadians have received with such enthusiasm.
NANCY, THE LIGHT-KEEPER'S DAUGHTER.
BY EDMUND COLLINS.
"Yes, that is a picture of Grace Darling, but I can tell you a story
of great bravery, too, which the world has never heard, about the
daughter of a light-keeper who lived on the shore of one of our
Canadian lakes." These words were spoken to me by an old Canadian
fisherman in whose house I was spending a few nights while out for my
autumn shooting.
"The girl's name was Nancy and her father was keeper of a small
wooden light-house which stood chained to a ledge lying close to the
harbour's mouth. The girl and her father lived alone upon the rock,
but when the water was smooth they went every day to the mainland in
their little boat. One day in the late autumn the keeper was obliged
to make a journey to a distant town, and as he could not reach home
again till some hours after dark, he left the lighting of the light
to Nancy. The girl and a number of others went among the hills in the
afternoon to pick bake-apples, and they remained till the sun was
only "a hand high" in the west. Then the party turned their steps
toward the coast.
"There will be a heavy gale to-night," the girl said, looking at the
sky; for a mass of dark cloud resembling a ragged mountain had
appeared up the coast and begun to roll rapidly toward the harbour.
It is only those who live near the lakes, that know how suddenly
sometimes a terrible hurricane will come out of a sky which was the
most peaceful of azure only a few moments before. The tempest first
moved along the level shore, casting an awful shadow upon the
landscape for miles before it; then it smote the sea in its full fury.
To describe the tumult of sound as the gale drove onward would be
impossible. A sad cry would swell out like the voice of a mother
wailing for her child; then, pitched in a low, loud key, would come a
noise like the howling of a soul condemned; while above the confusing
din could be heard shrill whistles and cross pipings as if a host of
mad spirits were signalling one another through the storm.
Nancy hurried to the shore where lay her little boat, and several
fishermen were gathered about the dock.
"Girl," said one, a hardy sailor who had been on the lakes in the
roughest weather, "no boat would live now to reach the reef. Better
wait till your father returns."
"But if some ship, unable to clear the land with this ingale, should
be obliged to run for the harbour, she could never enter without the
light."
"I was on the look-out a few moments ago, and there was nothing in
sight. But, even if there was, it would be madness to launch a boat
now. Look at these seas!"
The whole face of the gulf between the reef and the shore was a
wilderness of raging water. The fisherman had hardly ceased speaking,
when another of the coast people was seen hurrying down from the look-out.
"There is a ship about eight miles to the sou'west, with canvas
close hauled; but I don't think that she will be able to weather the
point."
"If she cannot, then she must run for the harbour, and there will be
no light," Nancy exclaimed; and the colour faded out of her brown
cheek. Then borrowing a telescope from one of the fishermen, she set
out for the top of the look-out. While she held the glass in her
trembling hands she saw the ship wear and turn her head toward the
harbour. Gathering her plaid shawl hastily about her shoulders, she
ran down the steep and returned to the dock.
"The ship is running for the harbour, and there _must_ be a light. Here,
help me to launch my boat."
"Is the girl mad!" two or three voices exclaimed at once.
"Girl," said the old man who had spoken before, "no small boat that
ever swam can reach yonder ledge now. Why do you want to throw away
your life? It cannot save the ship."
"The boat is light," Nancy replied, "and the canvas covering will
keep it from filling, if I can only manage always to meet the sea
head on. If I had a pair of after oars as well as my own there would
not be much difficulty." As she spoke these words, she looked at the
group, as if calling for a volunteer: but nobody took her hint. They
all cowered in the face of the gale, and some of them began to move
away from the dock.
"Then I must go alone," the girl said, as she threw off her shawl,
and hastily tied up her mane of soft, black hair. "You will surely
help me to launch the boat." But no hand would help her. They saw the
impetuous girl going to doom, and they would not be a party to her
madness. Getting three or four round pieces of driftwood, which were
slippery with water-slime, she laid them along the dock; two other
billets she placed under the boat's keel. Then gathering her strength
for one pull, she sent the boat into the churning surf. One of the
fishermen advanced to detain her, but she waved him back with a
gesture so determined and imperious that he hesitated. He then held
consultation with his friends. Two or three now hurried down to the
water's edge, but the boat had shot out beyond their reach, and was
already rising like some great sea-bird over the mad waves. The girl
had seized her oars and was rowing at a brisk rate toward the ledge.
Sometimes a huge, green, glittering wave would arise and roll towards
the shell, and the fishermen would close their eyes; but in response
to the rower's quick wrist, the little skiff would turn and climb
over the roaring crest of the terrible billow. Sometimes the boat was
nowhere to be seen, and one of the spectators would say to another,
"It is all over!"
Presently, however, the cockle would rise out of the trough and
appear upon the summit of a breaking sea, looking like a large,
crouching, sea-gull. On, steadily, the mite of a craft held its way,
sometimes heading directly for the reef, again swerving to the right
to mount a rampant billow. Smaller, and smaller grew the little
figure, till it became a mere white speck away in the driving mist.
The fishermen still remained huddled together in the dock; and as
one, with the telescope in his hand, announced that the girl was now
within a cable's length of the reef, a great look of shame came into
their faces, that not one had shown courage enough to go with her. As
for Nancy, in the midst of the ravening turmoil, she was cool of head
and steady of arm, pulling with a sturdy stroke, and constantly
turning her face to note the waves to be met with the full front of
the skiff. Sometimes the cross wash from a sea would smite the boat
upon the quarter, and for a moment expose it to destruction; but in
response to the girl's quick judgment and steady wrist, the bold
little prow would be instantly brought again in the face of the
tempest. In one continuous storm the spray drove over her, and the
skiff was more than half full of water. It was growing dark, and she
could barely distinguish the opposite shore. But the danger of the
passage was at last over, and her tiny craft was in the shelter of
the gloomy reef.
There was a windlass bolted to the rock, with which she drew the
skiff beyond the reach of the waves. Nimbly then she climbed the reef
till she reached the door of the tower. A few seconds later all the
fishermen saw the warm, yellow glare of the light streaming over the
turbulent water.
Nancy was happy now, and her large eyes strained through the lantern
of the tower to catch sight of the ship. She had not long to wait.
Between the reef and the long stretch of eastern shore, a red light
pulsed upon a wave, moving towards the harbour.
"Good!" the girl cried out, "she is midway in the channel and safe."
Then she descended to the basement, where she brewed a cup of tea,
and sat down to a supper of cold sea-fowl, and juicy, white bread of
her own baking.
The sleeping rooms were upon the middle story, but the girl began to
grow uneasy at the increasing violence of the hurricane, and would
not go to bed. Taking a book, she went to the lantern and sat upon a
box to read. The whistling of the wind around the glass and the dome
of zinc, the booming of the sea against the rock, and the brawling of
the waters around her produced such a tumultuous din that persons
speaking in the tower would be unable to hear each other.
Then dawned a new terror; and she looked upon the floor with
wide-opened eyes and blanched lips. Twice since its establishment,
during winter gales, had the tower been swept off the rock. It is true
the present structure was substantially built, and was firmly secured
to long iron "stringers" bolted to the solid rock; yet the sea was
already surging against the base of the tower, and at every blow the
edifice quivered till the machinery of steel and brass rang like a
number of little bells. Upon the grated, iron pathway running around
the lantern inside, she took her stand, and, thence, looked out. The
light streamed far beyond the ledge and revealed the full fury of the
sea. The agitated waters would recede from the reef upon the windward
side like a jumper who runs backward, that he may be able to leap
with greater force; then gathered up to the stature of a hill and
crowned with roaring foam, it would return with soft tread, but
terrible might, scaling the rock, and flinging its white arms around
the waist of the tower. Throughout the tumult, flocks of sea-birds,
driven from the surface, and bewildered in the dense darkness of the
storm, would fly for the light and smite the lantern; and then they
would fall backward into the surf, as if struck with a thunderbolt.
Other creatures flew with more care; and Nancy shuddered as she saw
the gleaming eyes of huge fish hawks outside, and beheld their dusky
wings waving at the panes.
Many an hour of terror passed with no employment for the trembling
watcher, save when the lamps grew dim and she moved from her standing
place to snuff the wick and turn more flame. Stepping nervously down
to the basement she found that it lacked only a quarter of four
o'clock. In half an hour it would be dawn, and she was cheered by the
thought as she re-ascended.
But how could a frail, wooden tower withstand these terrible shocks!
As she trod the spiral stairs, the whole edifice trembled and
creaked. Once, under a tremendous surge, she felt it reel. She
hurried again to the iron pathway and looked out. Billow after billow
came sweeping up the ledge, and did not pause till it smote the very
lantern with its soft foam.
"Oh! merciful God deliver me!" the girl cried, as she espied far out
a wave far more terrible and gigantic than any other which her
frightened eyes had seen. Before it reached the reef, she believed
that its storming crest was on a level with the lantern. Then it
seemed as if the whole ocean, aroused to strike one overwhelming
blow, fell in thunder upon the tower. Nancy was conscious of being
hurled rapidly through space; then followed a crashing sound, an
overturning and a confusion that no pen could describe. The tower was
in the sea.
She could never explain how it came about, but when she recovered
from the shock she was floating close by one of the tower floors. The
dawn had broken in glaring gray, and she was enabled to perceive her
situation. The lower part of the tower was uppermost, and the lantern
with its weight of machinery was beneath. Yes, God had heard her
supplication; and, comparatively safe from the billows, she clung to
a piece of timber, projecting above the floor. She was certain that
the storm was abating; yet the wreck was drifting rapidly toward the
inexorable rocks. Wave after wave passed over the uppermost part of
the tower, and sometimes the water smote her so that her head reeled,
and her senses became dimmed for some moments. A coil of rope hung
from a spike in the wall, and fastening an end of it around her slim
waist, she bound herself to a stout piece of timber.
A young man, passenger in the ship which the girl had saved, heard
of the heroism of the light-keeper's daughter. As soon as light came,
through promise of a liberal reward, he induced one of the sailors to
come with him in the launch. Near the shore they met the floating
tower, and saw lying upon the top, and bound there with a rope, the
girl who had risked her life to save the vessel. They believed that
she was dead, so pale was her beautiful face; and the coils of her
soft hair were trailing in the surging water. But she was not dead,
and, placed in the warm cabin of the delivered ship, soon opened her
great, timorous eyes.
Now, that my story may seem like a novel, I may add that the brave
young fellow who rescued Nancy was often seen afterwards about the
girl's home. Indeed I doubt if the two were ever parted.
End of Project Gutenberg's Annette, The Metis Spy, by Joseph Edmund Collins