FRIENDSHIPS
“There’s a man asking for you, sir!” said a servant to Lord Howe, as he sat in
the verandah of his friend Colonel Schuyler’s house in Albany.
It was a lovely day at the end of May. Winter had given place to a sudden
burst of spring, or rather early summer. The woods were rich with green
foliage; sunshine bathed the land, giving promise of a rich harvest of grains
and fruit, which in this climate ripen almost as quickly as they spring forth
from mother earth.
“A man asking for me?” said Lord Howe. “What sort of man?”
“Well, sir, he’s rather rough-looking: a border man, I should say,” answered
the servant.
“Better show him up here,” said Colonel Schuyler. “In these times one has to
deal with such a queer lot.”
Howe nodded assent, and the servant disappeared. The General rose and went
over to where his hostess, Madame Schuyler, sat in a low rocking-chair,
somewhat apart from the men, gazing sadly over the town and country. She and
Lord Howe were great friends. He had been a guest in this hospitable home for
several weeks, and both husband and wife had become deeply attached to him.
“What are you thinking of, Madame?” said Howe.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
“I was thinking,” she answered, in a low voice, “that soon you will be leaving
us. Will you ever come back again?”
“That is as God wills,” said Howe reverently. “Why trouble? Life and death are
in His hands, not in ours. The great call may come to me here in your happy
home as quickly as on the battle-field. I never feel nearer death there than
elsewhere.”
Before she could answer him, a quick step was heard on the verandah. Howe
turned round.
“Roger!” he exclaimed, holding out both his hands.
“Yes; I’ve turned up again,” said the hunter, as he returned the greeting. “I
suppose, like others, you reckoned I had taken my last leap?”
“I did indeed,” answered Howe. “You are almost like one come back to us from
the dead. Let me introduce you to my friends, and then tell us how it happens
that you are now standing before us alive, and, what is still more wonderful,
sound of limb, if I mistake not!” and he looked at his friend critically from
head to foot.
Roger threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, there are no broken bones,” he
answered.
“Madame,” said Howe, turning to Madame Schuyler, “allow me to present you to a
man I am proud to call my friend, ‘Roger the Ranger.’”
“The name is enough,” said the Colonel, coming up. “The whole country is alive
with the story of your exploits; but your _last_ beats them all. Do your
Rangers know of your escape, sir?”
“Yes; I joined a party of my men as soon as possible, but purposely kept quiet
for some time,” answered Roger. “Though not wounded, I was frightfully
bruised; sliding down that rock was no small matter. I was more dead than
alive when I got to the bottom, and had two or three ugly cuts. I believe I
must have lain unconscious for several hours. When I gathered myself together
I could hardly drag my limbs. I had to remain hidden in the forest for upwards
of a week, living on juniper berries and anything I could pick up; fortunately
the less a man gets to eat in a case like mine the better. I knew of a stream,
and was able to get fresh water; so by degrees the fever went down, and I
crawled to Fort Edward. I gave them a startler there; they thought it was my
ghost.”
“Do you know what has become of Philips?” asked Lord Howe.
“Murdered,” answered Roger shortly. “Pringle and Roche are prisoners of the
French, but they are well treated, and will in all probability be exchanged
before long. Where’s William Parkmann? Gone home?”
“No fear of that,” answered Howe; “he is my faithful esquire, and will not
leave me. He has just gone down the town, but he will be back before long. He
has been in terrible trouble about you. Of course at the Marshes they know you
are safe? You’ve taken care of that?”
“Yes; as soon as I was able I sent a party of men to let them know,” answered
Roger; “but it was a good two months after the mishap. However, fortunately,
news travels slowly out there, and it was some weeks before they knew anything
especial had happened; and as they are pretty well accustomed to my
hair-breadth escapes, they were not over-ready to believe the rumour of my
death. However, the assurance that I was alive and well was none the less
welcome.”
“I should rather think not,” said Madame Schuyler; “but do you really consider
it safe for your family to remain in such an out-of-the-way place? Every day
we hear of villages and settlements burnt and pillaged. At least, it seems to
me it would be better for your womankind if they came into a city for
protection.”
“I have no womankind,” said Roger sternly, looking straight before him, so as
to avoid Lord Howe’s eye; “and no power on earth would drag my father away
from the Marshes as long as there is one stone left upon another. The
settlement is large and well defended. I should say they ran less danger than
most of the border villages; and, in any case, it would not do for the heads
to take flight.”
“But at Alpha Marsh they are only women,” said Lord Howe.
“Marcus is there; he must decide. I have no word in the matter,” said Roger,
turning away to greet William Parkmann.
In the course of the evening, to Roger’s annoyance, the danger to the
colonists on the border was again discussed.
“My father has offered to send an escort to bring Mistress Langlade and her
daughters to Boston,” said William Parkmann; “but neither Loïs nor her mother
will move, and of course the younger girls will not leave them. Surely you
might use your influence and represent to them the risk they are running,” he
said, turning to Roger.
“I have no influence,” was the stony answer. “My father and Marcus will do all
that can be done to protect them; besides, as I told you before, I hardly
think the Indians will attack the Marshes. Their chief has surely power enough
to protect his own people!”
“I doubt it; besides, Langlade cannot be everywhere,” said Howe; “and the
Indians will owe you a worse grudge than ever now. Be warned, Roger, and send
word for the women to be sent to Boston.”
“If I did, Loïs would not obey me,” he said slowly. Neither Lord Howe nor
William Parkmann had ever heard him pronounce her name before. “He who ought
to have been there to defend his own has forsaken them; can she do likewise?”
he added, turning away with an angry gesture.
“There is nothing for it, William,” said Howe gently, “but to leave them in
God’s hands and trust to His mercy.”
“Ah, Madame Schuyler,” said William Parkmann to their hostess, “if you could
only see my pretty Marie! She is like a white lily. To think of those savages
approaching her is agony.”
“Try and not think of it,” said the lady gently. “Surely their brother will
take care they are not molested?”
“He cannot prevent the tribes making raids on the settlements,” said Lord
Howe; “and, besides, I have heard that Montcalm keeps him as much as he can
with him. It is St. Luc de la Corne and Nivernelle who were at the head of the
late expeditions. But here comes Roger; better say nothing more at present.”
The next few weeks were spent in hard, matter-of-fact preparation for the
coming campaign. Roger’s Rangers came from all parts, and gathered round him a
stronger force than ever, delighted to have once more found their leader, and
prouder than ever of his exploits. They were to take up their position on Lake
St. George, and to drive Montcalm from several advantageous positions he held
there, more especially from the plateau of Ticonderoga.
“Yes, dear lady, we shall part to-morrow,” said Lord Howe, the eve of the day
fixed for the departure of the army. “I have come to bid you farewell and to
thank you for my happy holiday. I trust before many weeks are over to return
to you victorious. Everything is in our favour; we have a splendid army, 6367
officers and soldiers, regulars, and 9054 colonial troops.”
“If they are well disciplined, I wonder who is to thank for it!” said Madame
Schuyler significantly.
“Certainly not Mrs. Nabby-Cromby, the ‘Aged One,’”[1] said William Parkmann,
who had accompanied Howe, on his farewell visit.
[Footnote 1: This nickname was generally applied to Abercromby throughout the
army, though he was only fifty-two years of age; but he was incapable and
infirm.]
“Whatever may be your private opinion, it would be more agreeable to me if you
would express yourself, when speaking of our General-in-Chief, more
respectfully,” said Lord Howe severely.
“I am sorry,” said William Parkmann, who knew full well that the least breach
of discipline was an unpardonable offence in the eyes of his leader.
Brigadier-General Howe was in reality the soul of the expedition; the soldiers
were devoted to him, and ready to follow him to the death. Yet he was a strict
disciplinarian. He had brought to bear upon the army all the experience he had
gathered during his months of forest warfare under Roger. He made the men
under his command dress according to their work. The coats of both regulars
and provincials were cut short at the waist; they wore leggings to protect
them from the briers. He did away with the long hair which was still the
fashion in the English army. All these details would have rendered many men
unpopular; but in Howe’s case it had the contrary effect: the sweetness of his
temper, his own personal example, and the excessive charm of his manner
carried all before him. With the exception of the few weeks he had been
persuaded to spend with the Schuylers whilst in the neighbourhood of Albany,
he lived in camp with his men, simply and roughly, sharing their hardships,
and, one and all, they appreciated his self-sacrifice.
“Nevertheless, though you are too modest to care to hear it, what William
Parkmann says is true,” said Madame Schuyler. “Without you there would be
neither order nor discipline in the army. If anything were to happen to you,
there would be an end to all things.”
“We might throw down our arms at once,” said William Parkmann. “General
Montcalm would have a fine chance.”
“I don’t think there’s a man I’m so sorry for as that man, though he be our
enemy!” said Howe. “But for him we should walk over the ground. He’s a
splendid general, and is holding his own against desperate odds, Vaudreuil is
jealous of him, and thwarts him at every step; and the other Canadian
officials are thieves and robbers. If Montcalm held all the power in his own
hands, and was properly seconded, we should have but little chance; as it is
he may yet win!”
“You don’t really think he will?” said Madame Schuyler.
“No, I do not,” answered Howe; “but still he is a splendid fellow, and as long
as he holds Quebec he is master of Canada. If he were _sole_ master, then I
should say the odds were for him and against us. And now, dear lady, farewell.
I have still much to see to to-night, and to-morrow at daybreak we shall
start. Never doubt but what as we pass by I shall look upwards to your white
house on these sunny upland meadows, and think of the happy hours I have spent
here, and the dear friends I leave behind.”
“Farewell, and God be with you,” said Madame Schuyler, her voice choked with
tears, as she gave him her hand; he bent for a second over it.
“God bless you and yours,” he said; then he turned away, ran down the terrace,
and disappeared from sight.
William Parkmann hastened to follow his chief’s example; but as he took leave
of Madame Schuyler he said,--
“You need not fear for him; he is so beloved; we all keep watch and ward over
him.”
“It will be of no avail,” she answered sadly. “I saw him last night in a
dream, lying dead in the long green grass;” and, turning away to hide her
emotion, she slowly re-entered the house.