ROGER THE RANGER
[Illustration: “HE THREW THE WHOLE WEIGHT OF HIS BODY UPON ME AND STRUCK ME
DOWN.”]
ROGER THE RANGER
A STORY OF BORDER LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS
BY E. F. POLLARD
AUTHOR OF “THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS,” “TRUE UNTO DEATH,” ETC.
Publishers--PARTRIDGE--London
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
I. ESAU
II. PARTED
III. BAD NEWS
IV. “MY OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND!”
V. A HERO
VI. A BRAVE HEART
VII. THROUGH STORM AND TEMPEST
VIII. BY LAND
IX. TRUE MEN
X. A NEW FRIENDSHIP
XI. DIPLOMACY
XII. A TERRIBLE DISASTER
XIII. BRAVELY DONE
XIV. SILENT INFLUENCE
XV. LOST
XVI. FRIENDSHIPS
XVII. THROUGH THE FOREST
XVIII. NADJII
XIX. THE ATTACK
XX. “LIGHTEN OUR DARKNESS”
XXI. AT THE HELM
XXII. HOME NEWS
XXIII. A CONFESSION
XXIV. THE PRODIGAL
XXV. TO THE FORE
XXVI. THE CHILD
XXVII. TWO HEROES
XXVIII. AT LAST
XXIX. ON THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM
XXX. THE VANQUISHED
XXXI. WEARY WAITING
XXXII. ON THE BATTLE-FIELD
XXXIII. A LONG JOURNEY
XXXIV. CONCLUSION
ROGER THE RANGER:
A Story of Border Life among the Indians
CHAPTER I
ESAU
“It is of no use, Father Nat; we have gone over the same ground again and
again. I shall never settle down as a New England farmer, and there are other
reasons why I should go forth from among you. Mother, you have Marcus; he will
stand you in good stead: he has almost reached man’s estate, and he is old for
his years; he will be a better son to you than I have ever been. Don’t, Loïs,
my darling;” and the speaker, a tall, handsome man of four- or
five-and-twenty, in the picturesque dress of the New England hunter, sought to
unclasp from round his neck the clinging hands of a young girl, down whose
face the tears were flowing fast.
“You are my firstborn, and like Esau you are selling your birthright, and
surely even as he did you will lose the blessing,” exclaimed his mother,
wringing her hands.
Martha Langlade was still a handsome woman, not yet fifty years of age, her
brow unwrinkled, no silver thread visible in the bands of her soft brown hair,
smoothed back under a snowy cap, round which was tied a broad black ribbon,
token of her widowhood.
“Then even as Esau I shall be a great hunter before the Lord,” answered her
son. “I am not leaving you comfortless, mother; you have the children and Loïs
and Marcus;” and turning towards a youth standing beside Martha, he held out
his hand to him, saying, “Marcus, you must take my place.”
“I am too young, Charles; think better of it and stay with us,” he replied.
The young man’s features worked; there was a moment’s hesitation, then he
shook his head, stooped and kissed again his sister’s upturned face, and,
pushing her gently towards a grey-headed man who had stood a silent spectator
of the scene, said huskily,--
“Take care of her, take care of them all, Father Nat.”
“A man has no right to shift his burdens upon other men’s shoulders. You will
live to rue this day, Charles Langlade,” was the stern answer.
“I trust not,” said the young man; “but this I know, go forth I must!
Farewell, mother; farewell, Father Nat; farewell, all of you. If troubles
threaten you I will come to your aid. Farewell;” and turning away, he strode
rapidly across the greensward in front of the house, bounded over the paling,
and, dashing down the hill-side, entered the forest, and so disappeared. As
they lost sight of the tall lithe figure, fully accoutred in his hunting garb,
his blanket rolled round him, his gun and ammunition slung across his
shoulders, Martha and the two little girls who were clinging to her wept
aloud.
“Don’t, mother dear,” said Loïs, throwing one arm round Martha’s neck and
kissing her.
“Ah, Loïs, I never thought he’d do it--never! It is your poor father’s fault,
taking the lads amongst the heathen. I told him no good would come of it,” and
her sobs redoubled.
Father Nat had kept silence since his last words to Charles Langlade; he
seemed oppressed with a weight of care. He had never really believed in the
oft-threatened desertion, and now the blow had fallen he was for the time
stunned; but he roused himself, gave vent to a long deep sigh, then, laying
his hand kindly on Martha’s arm, said,--
“It’s no use fretting; what is to be will be. Come, mother, be brave. Don’t ye
grieve over much; remember the little ones. We’ve done all we could to hold
him back. It seems almost as if the Spirit constrained him. And ye know it is
not well to fight against the will of God.”
“The will of God!” exclaimed Martha angrily, wiping her eyes and checking her
sobs. “Call it rather the machinations of the Evil One! How can you dare say
it is the will of God that a son of mine, my eldest born, should choose to go
and live amongst those cannibals, forsaking his father’s house and taking to
himself a wife from amongst the idolaters? I never thought to hear you say
such a thing, Father Nat! I’m minded you’ll think differently when your Roger
goes off after him.”
“My Roger will never do that,” said Father Nat. “I know the two lads love each
other dearly--it’s in the blood--as I loved your husband, and as it has ever
been from generation to generation, since the first Charles Langlade saved the
life of a Roger Boscowen from the Red Indians, and the two joining hands
established themselves together on this then waste land.”
“That proves what I say,” answered Martha doggedly; “or would you sooner see
our homesteads burnt and ruin threatening us? Have you forgotten the prophecy
of the Indian woman, the first who died under the shelter of your ancestor’s
roof? ‘When Langlade and Boscowen part, then shall the land be riven.’”
“Nay, nay,” said Nathaniel uneasily. “The lads will love each other still,
though they be parted; but Roger will never do as Charles has done--he will
never bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. He is my only son.”
“Tut, tut! What is to prevent him, if, as you say of Charles, it should happen
to be the ‘will of God’?”
She spoke bitterly--such an unusual thing for Martha that Father Nat looked at
her with surprise, and Loïs exclaimed,--
“Oh, mother! surely you do not mean it!” and the girl’s fair face flushed and
her lips quivered.
“I mean no harm,” said Martha; “but what more natural? They’ve been like
brothers all their lives.”
“But because Charles has gone astray there is no need for Roger to do the
same,” said Loïs gently. “It was not kindly spoken, mother, and yet I know you
love Roger dearly.”
“Ay, surely she does,” said Nat; “who better, save myself, and his dead
mother? Come, Martha woman, shake hands; we be too old friends to quarrel!
Making my heart sore will not heal yours.”
“Forgive me, Nat,” said Martha, bursting into tears. “You are right, my heart
is very sore. He was such a bonnie boy; and to think I’ve lost him, for truly
it is worse than if he were dead!”
“Nay, nay,” answered Father Nat; “while there is life there is hope. Cheer up,
mother; who knows? he may come back to us a better and a wiser man.”
“God grant it!” said Martha tearfully, her eyes turning wistfully towards the
dark forest, which seemed to have swallowed up her son.
“You’d best come and have supper with me, Martha,” said Father Nat. “It’s near
upon eight o’clock,” and he looked at the sky, crimson with the glow of the
setting sun. On one side lay the dark forest, and far away the long line of
hills encompassing the valley; a broad shining river flashed like a line of
silver through the plain, where nestled the two villages of East and West
Marsh. On the slope of a hill-side overlooking the whole country stood two
houses, built exactly alike, separated from each other originally by a light
garden fence, which in the course of years had changed into a thick shrubbery.
The “Marshwoods” they were called, and had been so named by the first Langlade
and Boscowen who had penetrated with a few followers across the borderland of
New England, far away from human habitations, and had struck root on this
virgin soil. No one had disputed the land with them, save the Red Indian. Log
huts had given place in time to these two homesteads, in front of one of which
the scene we have just described had taken place.
Built of the great trees hewn down in the primeval forest, neither storm nor
tempest had done them injury. Time had rather beautified than marred their
outward seeming. The shingled roofs were thickly overgrown with greeny yellow
lichen; the woodwork of the dormer windows, carved balconies, and deep
projecting porches had grown dark with age, thus showing off to greater
advantage the wealth of creepers which clambered in luxurious profusion from
basement to roof. Great clusters of purple and white clematis mingled with the
crimson flowers of the dark-leaved pomegranate. Over the porches, stretching
up to the casement windows, as if courting soft maiden hands to gather them,
clusters of white and pink roses vied with each other in perfume and beauty.
Both houses were so exactly alike! The same spirit seemed to have devised, the
same hand to have carried out the work, and yet the founders were of a
different people and a different race.
The Langlades were descended from a certain Chevalier de Langlade who had
fought in the great wars under Turenne, and when the armies were disbanded the
then French Minister, Colbert, had bestowed upon his regiment, as a reward for
its services, all the lands lying on the shores of the great Lake of St.
Lawrence--“Canada,” as the Indians called it; “New France,” the colonists
baptised it, when as far back as 1535 a French explorer, Jacques Cartier,
ascended the St. Lawrence.
In 1608 the brave and tender-hearted Samuel Champlain laid the foundations of
the City of Quebec, standing proudly on her rock overlooking land and sea.
France was then virtually mistress of North America, from Hudson’s Bay to the
Gulf of Mexico, by right of precedence. Therefore these warriors, when they
landed on the shores of the St. Lawrence, felt that they were not wholly
aliens from their beloved country, for which they had fought and bled. Ceasing
to be soldiers, they became great hunters. Most of them belonged to the
Reformed Church, and though Henry IV. had renounced his faith to become King
of France, he so far favoured his former co-religionists as to decree that New
France was to welcome the Calvinists, and that they were to be allowed to
worship after their own fashion; but Cardinal Richelieu, who by the Revocation
of the Edict of Nantes drove the Huguenots out of France, thus depriving her
of the most industrious of her population, extended his spirit of intolerance
even to New France, and decreed that the Calvinistic worship was no longer to
be tolerated there. The result was that many influential families left Canada,
seeking a new home. Amongst these was a Charles Langlade, with the young wife
he had but lately wedded. It was a perfect exodus, for he was much beloved and
had many followers. They went south, past the great Lake Champlain, into the
dense forests of the west. The Indians swarmed along their path, and daily,
hourly, the exiles were exposed to the danger of the tomahawks of the savages.
One memorable day the French Canadians suddenly came upon a group of
Englishmen defending themselves as best they could against an overwhelming
number of redskins. Charles Langlade fired, at what proved to be the Indian
chief, as with raised arm he was in the act of bringing his tomahawk down on
the head of a tall, largely built man, whose rugged features and great
strength marked him out from his companions. This man was Roger Boscowen.
Their chief slain, the Indians fled. Then Charles Langlade and Roger Boscowen,
who had thus seemingly met by chance, joined hands, and a great and strong
affection grew up between them, so that they cast in their lots together.
Roger Boscowen had but lately landed upon the shores of New England; he too
had left his Lincolnshire fens, with other well-to-do, God-fearing yeomen, for
conscience’ sake, to find a country where they might glorify God. They were
not “broken men,”--adventurers or criminals driven from their fatherland by
earthly want,--but men who were constrained by their fear of God and their
zeal for godly worship.
They had no dreams of gold-fields, but were resolute and industrious, quiet
and stern, recognising from the first that nothing was to be expected from the
land but by labour. So the representatives of the two races united, and
marched onward together along the wavy line of the New England border, until
they reached a spot which seemed to possess all the most essential
qualifications for a new colony. Forest land, deep hills and dales, pastures
sloping down to a broad shining river which watered all the land, lay
stretched out before them; and here they pitched their tents, and in time
multiplied and prospered, upholding from generation to generation the
characteristics of their Puritan and Huguenot forefathers--namely, piety and
simplicity of life. The “Marshes” had become one of the largest and most
prosperous of the border settlements.
Thus it was that the Langlades and Boscowens were alike proud of their
descent, and strove ever to prove themselves worthy in all things of those who
had gone before and were called “Fathers of the land.”
That an eldest son should have gone astray and have forsaken his ancestral
home was therefore a bitter sorrow. Alpha and Omega had been added to the name
of Marshwood to distinguish the homesteads. The Langlades owned Alpha, the
Boscowens Omega. As son succeeded father the tie which bound the heads of the
two houses together was never once broken; no word of dissension ever arose
between them. Younger sons and daughters went forth into the busy world; some
were lost sight of, others returned from time to time with a curious longing
to see once more the home of their race, and were made welcome and treated
hospitably; but, up to the present time, the eldest son of either branch had
never deserted his post.
The present generation was less fortunate in their domestic relations than
their predecessors. Nathaniel Boscowen lost his wife when his only son Roger
was still a child, and Louis Langlade died in the prime of life from an
accident he met with while hunting. With his dying breath he commended his
wife and children to the care of his life-long companion and friend Nathaniel,
who became forthwith “Father Nat,” not only in the settlement, but amongst the
Indians, who came to barter the skins of wild beasts for English goods. He was
still a man in the prime of life, and he strove nobly to fulfil his charge;
but Louis Langlade himself had early inspired his son and Roger with a love
for hunting and the wild Indian life, and after a time Nat found it impossible
to exercise any control over Charles. He would disappear for days together,
and at last announced his intention of dwelling entirely with the Indians and
taking a wife from amongst them.
Up to the very last no one believed he would really carry out the threat, and
when he did the blow, as we have seen, fell heavily upon them all.
In answer to Father Nat’s invitation to supper, Martha said,--
“Yes, I shall be glad to come; at least I shall not see his empty chair at my
own table. Come, children; we will go and see after the men’s supper, and then
betake ourselves to Omega Marsh.”
Marcus followed his mother, and so Nathaniel and Loïs were left standing alone
in the porch. For a time they both kept silence; suddenly Father Nat asked,--
“Do you know where Roger is, Loïs? He has been absent since dawn.”
“No, I do not,” she answered. “But he will come home; have no fear, Father
Nat,” and she turned her young face towards him, bright, notwithstanding the
shadow resting on lips and brow. She was barely eighteen, tall and slim, but
with those delicately rounded limbs which denote perfect health and strength;
her features were regular, her large grey eyes fringed with long lashes, the
tips of which curling up caught the sunlight, even as did the rich golden hair
which, waving back behind the small ears, fell in two long thick plaits below
her waist. She, like her mother, wore a black gown, a large white bibbed
apron, and sleeves turned back to the elbow, with facings of linen, scarcely
whiter than the rounded arms thus exposed to view.
“I believe he will,” said Father Nat, in answer to her assertion; “but he will
never be content, never be satisfied again.”
“We will trust he may, in time,” answered Loïs. “Why look ahead, dear Father
Nat?”
“You are right, lass. ‘Sufficient unto the day.’ There’s the gong for supper;
come, the mother will follow.”
Even as he spoke Martha and her children joined them, and together they passed
through the wicket gate which alone separated the two gardens.
The meal was, according to the good old custom, taken in common, masters and
servants sitting at the same board. When the master entered the great kitchen,
some ten or twelve men and women employed on the home farm were standing about
in groups awaiting Nat’s appearance, and naturally discussing the great event
of the day. Doffing his broad wideawake, he bade them “Good-evening,” as did
also Martha and her children. The salutation was heartily returned, and then
he took his place at the head of the long table, upon which great joints of
cold viands and huge pasties were already exciting the appetites of those
about to partake thereof. When they were all gathered round the board, Father
Nat raised his hand to enforce silence, and in a solemn voice called upon God
to bless the fruits of the earth. When he had finished his prayer, before
uttering the usual “Amen” he paused; evidently some strong emotion checked his
power of speech, but all present felt he had something more to say, and waited
respectfully.
“My friends,” he said at last, with a slight quiver in his manly voice, “you
all know that one we love has gone out from amongst us, to our great sorrow. I
commend him to your prayers. May the God of his fathers watch over him, and
guide his footsteps in the right way. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated all present, and then they seated themselves and the meal
began, but not gaily as usual, the cloud which rested on the master
overshadowing them all.