“MY OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND!”
Supper was over; the men and women employed about the house and home farm had
dispersed. Father Nat sat in his large wooden armchair within the great
fireplace, his pipe between his teeth; but it had gone out, and in his
preoccupation he had not noticed the fact. Opposite him sat Martha Langlade
knitting, and the click of her needles was heard above the murmuring voices of
the two younger girls, who were busy conning over their lessons for the
morrow. In marked distinction to the Canadians, and French colonies, education
was held in high esteem, and indeed enforced, in the New England states.
Whenever a settlement mustered a sufficiently large population to be able to
support a minister, there, beside the church or chapel, a schoolhouse was sure
to spring up, the functions of minister and schoolmaster being generally
united in the same person. In the broad window-seat Loïs was telling Marcus
the particulars of Roger’s return. The young man was now nearly twenty.
Physically he resembled his brother, but in character he was the very
opposite. Warfare was hateful to him; had he lived in quiet times he would
have been a student. John Cleveland, the minister of the Marshes, had
earnestly desired that he should be brought up to the ministry; but when his
elder brother left them, Marcus knew that his place was at home, that his
mother and sisters needed him, and quietly, without a murmur, he had put his
own wishes on one side, and applied himself to the management of the farm. He
was not brilliant like either Roger or Charles, but he was doggedly
industrious, and Father Nat seldom had reason to complain. He was also a good
son, and Martha, though she often grumbled at what she termed his slowness,
knew it well; but he was not her firstborn, and he was fully aware that,
labour as he might, he never succeeded in filling the vacant place in his
mother’s heart; he never could replace the eldest son after whom she yearned!
Loïs and he were great friends; they had always been so, trusting and
supporting each other in all things.
“He’s slept over eight hours,” said Father Nat at last.
Loïs turned round, listened for a moment, then said,--
“He’s moving now; he’ll surely be wanting some food. I’ll go and see to it;”
and rising she went into the outer kitchen, listening all the time for his
step on the stairs as she and Nokomis prepared the supper. At last it came,
not firm and quick as usual, but slow and heavy, as if the soul of the man
were also heavy within him.
“Give me the scones, Nokomis,” said Loïs; and, taking the dish, she entered
the front kitchen by one door as Roger came in by the other.
“You’ve had a good sleep and must need your supper,” she said with a smile.
“Nokomis has kept some scones hot for you.”
“Thank you,” he answered, and then lifting his eyes he looked round the room.
Marcus held out his hand.
“I’m glad you’re back, Roger,” he said, “but desperately sorry for the cause
which kept you away.”
“I knew you would be,” answered Roger, as he seated himself at the table,
where one of the younger girls had hastened to spread a snowy cloth, upon
which Loïs placed the food.
“Are your wounds easier, Roger?” asked Martha.
“I scarcely feel my arm, but my head aches badly,” he answered.
“You want food; you’ll be better after supper,” said his father.
“Maybe,” answered Roger carelessly, and he took up his knife and fork and
began mechanically to eat the food Loïs put upon his plate. But after the
first few mouthfuls, nature asserted her rights. He was young and strong, had
fasted all that day, and the fever of his wounds having left him, his appetite
returned, and Loïs had the satisfaction of seeing the food disappear.
With infinite tact she told him of little events which had taken place in the
settlement during his absence. Father Nat, Marcus, and the others joined in,
so that the conversation became general. Roger kept silence, but he was
evidently listening. Suddenly the door opened, and John Cleveland, the
minister, entered. He and Nathaniel had been friends ever since he had been
elected minister of the Marsh villages. The young Langlades and Boscowens had
had no other teacher; he had married a Boscowen, a cousin of the present head
of the house, and was therefore one of the family.
Every evening, summer and winter alike, he smoked his pipe in the chimney
corner of Omega Marsh. Roger Boscowen and Charles Langlade had been great
favourites with him, and both the young men returned his affection. He had
done his best to prevent the latter taking the fatal step which had plunged
them all into sorrow; failing to do so, he had grieved for him almost as
bitterly as Nat had done.
Whilst Roger was sleeping, his father had gone over to the minister’s house
and told him of the boys’ return.
“But I don’t like the look in his eyes,” he had said; “the meeting with
Charles, under present circumstances, has unhinged him terribly. It’s not the
fighting, nor the wounds; it’s the moral shock. I don’t think he ever really
realised the change before. You’ll see what you think of him when you come up
to-night.”
Entering the kitchen, John Cleveland went straight up to Roger, and laying his
hand on his shoulder said earnestly,--
“Thank God you’re home again! Your father and I have been in trouble about
you, Roger. You’ve had a hard time of it, lad. But it’s well, perhaps, you
should look things straight in the face; you know now for certain that he we
loved so well is lost to us, unless God in His great goodness vouchsafes to
bring him home. In the meantime you are our hope and stay, Roger. Your name is
in every mouth throughout the towns and villages of New England, as the man
most capable of defending us against the French and Indians. The vote has been
given; you are to be elected Captain of the Rangers, because of your superior
knowledge in woodcraft. Within the last few days the story of Old Britain’s
massacre has spread terror everywhere. There are those who still remember the
massacre of Haverhill, when their minister was beaten to death and the men,
women, and children murdered in cold blood, upwards of forty years ago. I am a
man of peace and I preach peace; but if the heathen assail us, we must arise
and defend ourselves: we cannot see our wives and children massacred or led
captives before our eyes. Therefore I say to you, Roger Boscowen, Arise and
gird on your sword, for it is a righteous cause you are called upon to defend.
All the young men of New England and along the border are prepared to obey you
as their leader, and to aid you in the defence of our hearths and homes. Let
not your heart faint within you,” he continued kindly, lowering his voice,
“because he you loved has gone over to the enemy. Jonathan and David fought
not in the same camp, yet they loved each other to the end. If you cannot tear
out the brotherly affection which has grown with your growth and has been so
sweet to you, make up your mind to sacrifice it at the call of duty.”
He ceased, and there was a moment’s silence; then Roger arose, and standing in
the midst of them said,--
“You are right, Mr. Cleveland, and I thank you for putting into words the
struggle which has been going on within me. But it is over. From henceforth he
and I are strangers one to another.”
He paused, drew a long breath, and then, as if he had cast something far away
from him, crossed over to where his father sat, and, taking the seat beside
him, said,--
“Now, if you will let me, I will tell you all that has happened since I left
home: it is a long and painful story.”
In a few minutes all those present had gathered round him. Martha laid her
knitting down and folded her hands to listen. It was of her son, her
firstborn, she was about to hear, and it seemed to her as if her heart were
like to break.
When they were all settled Roger began. “I found upon reaching Oswega that
trade was far from flourishing. The French are growing very aggressive, and
are daily becoming better friends with the Indians; they are liberal with both
presents and promises, whereas we are neither; indeed, the Indians accuse us
of not keeping faith with them. I and a dozen other traders decided therefore
to go and see what we could do with Old Britain and the Miamis. It was the end
of May when we reached the village. Most of the Indians were away on their
summer hunt; but Old Britain received us well, and persuaded us to remain till
some of the tribe should return. Thinking this might prove advantageous, as
they were sure to bring fresh skins with them, we agreed to do so. Everything
went well for the first fortnight; then we heard rumours of raids farther up
the country, and I saw Old Britain was anxious. Once or twice he sent men out
as scouts; but they came back saying they had seen no enemy, that the land was
quiet; so, though he took every precaution against being surprised, he was
satisfied there was no immediate danger to fear. He was not made aware by any
sign that on the night of June 20th the enemy slept quietly in the near
forest. They had come down the lakes in a fleet of canoes, two hundred and
fifty picked warriors of the Ottawa and Ogibwa tribes. Silently, as only
Indians can march, they made their way through the forest. At daybreak we were
aroused by the shrill cry we all know so well, and then they were upon us,
spreading terror through the village. The rifle rang out, the cry of the dying
arose. Old Britain and his Indians fought bravely; but of course from the
first it was hopeless--numbers were against them. They were slain or taken
prisoners every one of them: it was a hideous spectacle. We traders had taken
refuge in the warehouse, where till five in the afternoon we defended
ourselves against fearful odds. Early in the day I had seen and recognised
their chief. No need for me to tell you who he was! Three of our men managed
to get out, hoping to reach the forest and escape: they failed, and were
massacred before our eyes. Then the Indians swarmed over the palisades into
the warehouse, and we knew that our last hour had come; but foremost, trying
to hold them in check, came their chief. When he saw me he sprang wildly
forward, covering me with his own body. ‘For God’s sake surrender!’ he said.
‘Never!’ I answered, and fired over his head. An Indian fell; it was a signal
for all the others to rush on. _He_ turned upon me. I never shall forget the
look in his face. I saw the glittering steel in his hand as he threw the whole
weight of his body upon me and struck me down.
“When I recovered consciousness I found myself in a log hut in the middle of
the forest, _he_ standing over me bathing my head.
“‘I couldn’t help it, old fellow,’ he said. ‘It was the only way of saving
your life.’”
Roger paused. His voice failed him, so deep was his emotion; but when he spoke
again he had mastered himself.
“I stayed in that hut a whole week unable to move; he kept guard over me and
nursed me night and day. At the end of that time I was fit to travel. He
brought me on my way until I was out of danger; then we parted. Ask me not
what we said one to the other during those days and nights we were alone
together; from henceforth we have agreed to strive our very uttermost never to
meet again, never to look into each other’s faces. We are dead to one another.
He told me that not for worlds would he again go through the agony he endured
when he felled me to the earth, and stood over my body to prevent his Indians
scalping me. Was I dead or alive? Had the curse of Cain descended upon him? He
had conquered me; I was his captive,--that was all he knew, and by that right
he saved me from the Indians. Not till night had fallen and they were deep in
their disgusting orgies did he and John Stone, the lad who followed him as his
servant, venture to do more than thrust me into an outhouse, lock the door,
and threaten vengeance upon any one who should molest me. I was his prize and
he was chief! They dared not disobey. During the night he and John carried me
to a deserted hut in the forest, where I was comparatively safe. It is a week
since we parted company. I have travelled slowly, from weakness, and because I
was only able to carry a small amount of food. More than once I thought I must
lie down and die after he left me.”
Roger stopped short. “That is all,” he said, looking round. The womenkind were
weeping, the men’s faces were stern. Then John Cleveland stood up.
“Let us pray,” he said; and, after the fashion of the old Puritans, they all
arose and stood with clasped hands and bowed heads whilst the minister prayed.
“O Lord, we thank Thee for Thy great mercy in delivering our dear brother from
the jaws of the lion and bringing him back amongst us. In Thy great wisdom
Thou hast done this thing, that he may be as Moses of old, a deliverer of Thy
people. Strengthen him, O Lord; enlighten him, that he may overcome in Thy
might the heathen and the oppressor. Give us peace, O Lord, we pray Thee; but
if because of the wickedness in the land war cometh upon us, then give us the
victory. Teach Thou ‘our hands to war’ that we may glorify Thy Name, and that
the strange nations may do likewise. And over this household we pray Thee
stretch forth Thine hand. Be merciful to the widow and fatherless in their
affliction, and in Thy good time bring back the wandering sheep into the fold.
Enable us to cast out all affections which tend not to Thy glory, and to
worship Thee alone, the only true God, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
“Amen,” answered the little congregation.
“Peace be with you all,” said the minister, stretching forth his hand.
And so, without further speech, but with silent hand-clasping, they parted for
the night. When all were gone, and Father Nat and Roger stood alone on the
hearth, the former said,--
“It will be war, Roger.”
“Ay, father; it will be a terrible war,” he answered. “Brother against
brother. How shall I endure?”
“The Lord’s will be done. He will surely give you strength. Now let us go to
rest, my son,” said the elder man; and, putting out the lights, father and son
went up the broad oak staircase together, the summer moon shining in through
the casement window lighting their darkness. But their hearts were heavy
within them.