BAD NEWS
“Well, Loïs, I think it’s pretty nearly time Roger was back amongst us; he’s
been gone over two months,” said Father Nat, standing beside Loïs, as she sat
on the broad window-seat, a large basket of household linen beside her, which
she was carefully sorting and arranging. She and her mother managed Father
Nat’s household matters as well as their own, whilst he looked after the
outdoor work of the two farms. Virtually they really formed but one community:
all their interests were in common; but they maintained their separate
establishments. Nokomis, a coloured woman, ruled in the kitchen of Omega
Marsh, and in her department suffered no interference; but the linen was Loïs’
care: twice every week she spent the whole day putting it in order. When
Father Nat made the above remark, she paused in what she was doing and said,--
“Two months, Father Nat! It is ten weeks since he started for Oswega.”
“Ten weeks, is it?” answered Nat. “He ought to be back, Loïs;” and turning
away from her, he looked steadily out of the window.
“Yes, he ought,” she answered; “I understood he had left Oswega a month ago?”
“So he did,” answered Nat; “he went with some other traders to Miamis, you
know--the village of Old Britain.”
“He’s safe there,” said Loïs. “I thought you always said Old Britain was a
fast friend of the English?”
“So he is, but the French don’t half like it; they are always trying to get
him on their side. But what with presents and selling our goods dirt cheap,
we’ve managed somehow to keep him and his tribe satisfied; but I expect every
day to hear the French have either bought him over or destroyed and plundered
the village.”
“I believe you’ve heard something already,” said Loïs, and she went and stood
beside him. “What is it, Father Nat?” she asked anxiously.
He did not answer immediately. At last, in a hurried voice, he said,--
“There is a rumour, but it may be false. I don’t want to give heed to it.”
“What is it?” repeated Loïs. “Tell me quickly, Father Nat,” and in her
excitement she laid her hand on his arm.
“The news has come,” said Nathaniel slowly, “that a fleet of canoes manned by
two hundred and fifty Ottawa and Ogibwa warriors have paddled down the lakes
from Green Bay and so up the Maumee, and when last heard of they were marching
through the forests against the Miamis.
“This news is three weeks old. If it be true, they will have surprised Old
Britain and made short work of him, for you know most of the men of the tribe
are away at this time for the summer hunting; only the old men, squaws, and
children remain in the village. Roger, as I said, was going there with other
traders; it strikes me if all had gone well he would have been home by this
time.”
“Do you know anything else?” asked Loïs, and the very way in which she put the
question was proof that she expected something more.
Nathaniel hesitated.
“Hush, do not say it,” she said, throwing back her head, whilst tears filled
her eyes. “Charles was at Green Bay when last we heard of him,” and she wrung
her hands.
“It is of no use, Loïs; we must make up our minds to it,” said Father Nat with
a sigh. “He has passed away from us; he is gone over to the enemy, and in the
war which is threatening us his hand will be against his own home and against
his own people. I have heard that in the two years he has dwelt amongst them
he has become a great man with the Indians; and the French hold him also in
much esteem, partly because of his influence with the tribes, partly on
account of his knowledge of Indian warfare and his forest lore. It is certain
that an expedition did start from Green Bay commanded by a white man; they
stopped at the fort at Detroit; but whether the white man was Charles, and
whether they pushed on as far as Old Britain’s, we do not know.”
Loïs had listened in silence, with bowed head. Suddenly she looked up, a light
in her eyes.
“Father,” she said, “Charles would defend Roger with his own life; he would
never suffer any one to touch a hair of his head.”
“If he happened to come across him! But with two hundred devils rushing into a
half-deserted village, ten chances to one they would never meet; they would
have scalped him before Charles came up. Besides, he could not restrain them.
I know too well what Indians are like when they have once tasted blood. And to
think that a Langlade should consort with such devils! There is little doubt,
Loïs, if Old Britain has been attacked, and Roger happened to be there, as I
am pretty sure he was, I shall never see my son again,--and he is my only
son!”
“Father, I am here.”
Nathaniel and Loïs turned sharply round, the latter with a faint cry, and
there, leaning against the wall close by the door, stood Roger. He could move
no farther. His clothes were torn almost to rags, one arm was in a sling, his
head was bandaged, his face colourless; but worse than all was the look of
despair in his eyes. Loïs crossed the room rapidly, and, pushing a chair
towards him, said,--
“Sit down, Roger.”
Mechanically he obeyed, and from his parched lips came in a hard guttural
voice the one word, “Water.”
Loïs hastened away, and Nathaniel, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder, said
with ill-disguised emotion,--
“Thank God you’re back, lad; but you’ve had a hard time of it.”
Roger made no answer; he merely bowed his head, and, taking from Loïs the bowl
she now offered him, drained it at one draught.
“Fetch your mother,” said Nat, and once more the girl disappeared. “Now,
Roger, cheer up, lad,” he continued. “When Martha has looked at your wounds,
go straight away upstairs and sleep it off. Don’t try to tell us anything at
present. I guess pretty well what has happened. It’s been rough work; but
you’ve escaped with your life, and that’s more than I expected. Will you eat
something?”
Roger shook his head, and rising to his feet he almost wailed forth,--
“He was my friend--my own familiar friend!”
It was terrible to see the agony in his face. Physical pain is as nothing
compared with the wrench of the heart’s strings. Roger had gone away a young
man; he came back with heavy lines across his brow, and a drawn, hard look
about his mouth.
Martha now came in, followed by Loïs.
“There, don’t ye fret, Roger,” she said; “the thing’s done, and there’s no
mending of it. Sit ye down, and let me see what ails your head and arm. I’d
like to think it were none of his doing?”
Martha uttered the last words wistfully, almost questioningly; but Roger made
no answer, and a deep sigh escaped her as she proceeded to unbandage his head.
He was as docile as a little child under her hands.
“Get plenty of water and linen, Loïs, and be quick about it,” said Martha
sharply; “and you, Nat, just hand me those scissors.” As they both turned away
to obey her she bent over Roger, and whispered in a quivering voice, “It can’t
hurt you as it hurts me, his mother.”
“He saved my life,” said Roger.
“Thank God for that,” answered Martha; and turning round, she added, “Do you
hear, Father Nat? My poor boy saved Roger’s life,” and great tears ran down
her cheeks.
“I said he would!” came from Loïs, who returned with basin and ewer just as
her mother uttered the last words.
“But I’d rather have died than have seen him as he now is,” said Roger.
“Nay, lad,” returned Nat; “your dying would not have given him back to us: it
would but have made our hearts the sorer. Live to prove yourself the better
man. Now be quick, Martha; the sooner he’s in bed the better.”
The wound on Roger’s head was both deep and painful; it had been caused by a
blow from a steel hatchet--how it had not killed him was the marvel. His arm
had a deep flesh wound. But what ailed him most was the great moral
depression. He had evidently received a shock, from which he had not been able
as yet to recover. Loïs as she helped her mother watched him closely, but she
kept silent, knowing the sorrow was still too fresh to allow of comfort. When
the dressing was over and he had drunk another bowl of fresh water, he rose,
saying,--
“I will follow your advice, father, and go to bed. Call me at suppertime.”
And without uttering another word, looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left, he quitted the kitchen. They heard him go slowly up the stairs, and,
crossing the floor of the room overhead, fall heavily upon his bed.
Father Nat gave a deep groan, and Martha, sinking on a settle, threw her apron
over her head and sobbed bitterly.
Loïs, kneeling down beside her mother, laid her head on her shoulder. No one
spoke; they were realising for the first time how great the barrier must needs
be which had arisen between them and Charles Langlade, the Indian chief.
“I’d sooner have seen him lying dead before me,” moaned Martha.
“Nay, nay, Martha, say not so; life is life--there is no hope in the grave!
Remember David, who ‘fasted and wept while the child was yet alive’ in the
hope that ‘God might be gracious and that the child might live, but after he
was dead he ceased all outward signs of mourning and bowed his head and
worshipped God.’ Is it nothing that we can still pray the Father to bring our
dear one home to us again?”
Father Nat’s voice was full of deep emotion, and taking up his hat he too went
forth.