THE CHILD
General Montcalm was slowly pacing up and down the room he occupied at his
headquarters on the St. Charles; the only other person present was Langlade,
called by courtesy Captain Langlade. A look of great annoyance was on the
General’s face.
“You cannot do this,” he said. “What you have engaged to accomplish you must
carry out to the end. If you withdraw yourself from the Indians, you will do
our cause incalculable harm. They know you; they obey you; you are a power
with them. With the Canadians you are no one; they have their own officers. In
my opinion, you are bound to retain your present position until the end of the
campaign; the wrongs you deplore would be greatly increased if your influence
were withdrawn. I entreat of you, make no change at the present critical
moment. As far as lies in my power, I will lighten your duties; but you must
remain with your Indians, to hold them in hand and to restrain them.”
“I have promised my people I would have nothing further in common with the
Indians,” said Charles.
“You pledged yourself first to me,” said the General. “You cannot desert me;
you would do far greater harm by withdrawing yourself. I entreat of you not to
do this thing.” And he went up to the young man, and took his hand with the
persuasive eloquence for which he was so noted.
Charles knew full well that the General was right; that, once his authority
removed, the Indians would be more difficult than ever to hold under
restraint, and that their natural cruelty would have free scope. Scalps
without number! they had no other ambition. The Iroquois, if they were
foremost in war and in eloquence, were also foremost in savage acts. They were
proud to have a white man as their leader, and would revenge his desertion,
perhaps even by withdrawing themselves from the French cause. He realised for
the first time how difficult it is to retrace false steps, and to undo
wrongdoing. He had joined himself to the Indians, he had sworn to serve the
French cause, of his own free will and for his own personal ends: was he
justified in withdrawing himself at so critical a moment for reasons equally
personal? His sense of justice told him he was not. After a few minutes’
reflection, during which the General watched him anxiously, he said, in
serious, measured tones, very different from the eager, impetuous voice of
old,--
“I will remain with you. I have done harm enough already. It is no longer with
me a question of right, but what is least wrong. I have studied my own
inclinations all my life; now I am going against them.”
“And you do well, believe me,” said Montcalm. “No one can hate the Indians
more than I do; my whole soul recoils from them. How you ever came to join
them has been a wonder to me; but having done so, it is but fair that you
should remain at your post until the war is over. I should never know an
hour’s tranquillity if you were not their leader. Thank you for your decision;
some day I may perhaps find means of proving my gratitude.”
“You could render me a service now at once, if you would,” said Charles.
“Name it,” answered the General.
“I told you I had a son,” said Charles quickly; “his mother died trying to
save the Marshes. She had carried the child with her in her long journeyings,
and when the Indians attacked the village, she hid him in the trunk of a tree
while she went to the rescue. When the fray was over she told my sister Loïs
where to find the child, but when she sent to look for it, it had disappeared.
I have been a long time tracing it, but at last discovered that a half-brother
of Nadjii’s, the lad who had warned Roger of the meditated attack, had found
the child, brought it up here, and given it in charge of a Huron woman, living
at Lorette. At first I doubted the story; but I went to see the child two days
ago, and recognised him as my son. I cannot leave him where he is--it is not
safe; and, moreover, I never wish him to know that he has Indian blood in his
veins. I have thought that at the Convent of the Ursulines they would take him
in, and care for him, if you would obtain admission for him.”
“Nothing can be simpler,” answered Montcalm. “You know that three months ago
Mercèdes entered as a novice. After that affair of Montreal I never allowed
her to return to Madame Péan: indeed, she had no desire to do so; she begged
me to let her enter the convent at once. In fact, she pined and drooped from
that time, until I brought her back to Quebec, and she and Marthe both entered
the Ursulines together. Since then she has recovered, and whenever I can
manage to find time to go and see her, she is as bright and happy as I can
wish. Yes, certainly, I will give you a letter to the Superior. Take your
child there; it will be well cared for. I will write it at once;” and sitting
down, he drew the writing materials towards him. “There,” he said, handing the
letter to Charles, “if you present yourself to-morrow, and ask to see the
Superior in my name, you will gain admittance. Give her this. I have explained
everything; the child will be safe there.”
“Thank you,” said Charles; “and now I will leave you. I shall be in Quebec
to-morrow. You may trust me; I am yours until the war is over,” he added.
“I have your word,” answered Montcalm; “surely that is enough,” and
accompanying him to the door, they shook hands, and then he watched the young
man go down the hill-side, on his way to the Indian quarters.
“A fine fellow, but a ruined life,” he thought. “Thank goodness I have
persuaded him to remain with his Indians; the game would have been as good as
played out if he had deserted us.”
It was early morning as Charles Langlade strode rapidly along the road leading
from the hamlet of Lorette to Quebec. Through meadows and rye-fields it wound,
crossing and recrossing the swift St. Charles, a somewhat lonely road with a
few cottages scattered here and there, and irregular, shabby-looking cabins
along the lanes, at the doors of which lounged Indian boys and girls of all
shades and colours. This was the Huron village of Lorette. They were
Christians after their fashion, the poor remnant of the mighty Huron nation,
converted by the Jesuits and crushed by the Iroquois in the far western
wilderness.
But Charles Langlade was not alone. He carried on his shoulder a boy of some
three years old. The two resembled each other most curiously, except that the
child’s skin was still fair and soft, whilst the father’s was bronzed and
weather-beaten. There were the same deep blue eyes and curling chestnut hair,
the same pose of the head slightly tossed back. They looked very picturesque,
the hunter in his crimson shirt, one arm raised, holding the half-naked child,
who sat proudly aloft, clutching at his father’s hair, beating his little bare
feet against the broad chest, and laughing aloud for glee; so bubbling over
with life, that the passers-by turned to look back at them.
It was a goodly sight; and so they reached the heavy stone gateway leading
into the city, set thick with mighty bolts and spikes. Here Charles Langlade
paused, and showed his pass before he could gain admittance; but he was not
detained long, and went his way through a squalid lane, the old “Sault au
Matelot,” looking its best this bright summer morning, creeping under the
shelter of the city walls and overhanging rock, from which drooped weeds and
grass, with just a few rays of sunlight penetrating here and there, glistening
on the abundant moisture which slowly trickled down, until at last he reached
the flight of steps leading from the lower to the upper town, and having
climbed them stood at the convent gates. He paused a moment before pulling the
great bell, lifted the child from off his shoulder, and placed it on the
ground. As it stood thus beside him he looked at it, and passed his hand over
the rough curly head, straightening the short crimson cotton blouse, which,
with innumerable strings of coloured beads round its neck, was all the clothes
it boasted; then with an impatient sigh he pulled the rope dangling at the
gateway. The sound rang through the silent court and garden, and presently a
small panel was pushed on one side, and a voice asked,--
“Who is there?”
“From his Excellency General Montcalm. I am the bearer of a letter to the
reverend mother,” said Langlade.
The little panel was clapped quickly to again, and he heard the receding
footsteps of the doorkeeper.
He was not kept long waiting. This time the little door let into the big
gateway was unbarred, and he was bidden to enter; and, after she had carefully
rebolted the door, the nun preceded him through the garden, full of flowers,
clumps of lilac bushes, roses, and hollyhocks, blossoming within the shelter
of the high surrounding walls, while the bright morning sun poured down on the
alleys and greensward with all the glory of the short Canadian summer.
He was ushered into a long whitewashed room, the only furniture of which was a
deal table, a few common chairs, and a tall crucifix on the wall.
The nun pointed to a chair, and disappeared with that soft gliding movement
habitual to her class; but Charles Langlade, picking the child up, carried it
to the open window and looked out on the quiet scene; and as he caught a
glimpse of black robes moving among the trees, he wondered in his secret heart
if Mercèdes were there. A strange longing had been upon him all that day to
see her face once more, and then--well, then it would be over.
The door opened, and a tall thin woman in black robes and veil, her face
framed in white linen, entered noiselessly. Behind her was another figure
dressed in the same fashion, only she wore a long white robe and veil; her
face was very pale and her eyes downcast, but in her Charles Langlade
recognised Mercèdes; and thus it was these two stood once more in each other’s
presence.
“I have read the General’s letter, Mr. Langlade, and understand that you wish
to leave your child with us for a time. You can do so; we will take all care
of it, and when this terrible war is over you can claim it of us.”
So said the reverend mother, and advancing, she tried to take the little hand;
but the child, terrified, clung to his father, uttering Indian words
indicative of fear at the strange figure before him, such as he had never seen
before.
“He will soon get accustomed to us,” said the mother gently. “Sister Mercèdes,
will you try your influence?”
Charles whispered a few words to the boy, and, sitting down, placed him on his
knee, and as Mercèdes approached, he said,--
“Mademoiselle, your father bade me enquire after your health and well-being.”
“Tell my dear father I am well and happy,” she answered; “and that we pray
unceasingly for his success.”
She spoke quite calmly, and the colour had come back into her face.
“I will not forget,” he answered; then again he spoke to the child. The boy
looked up at the young novice, who, trembling slightly, held out her arms and
smiled upon him, speaking a few soft words such as she had been wont to use to
her little sister at home, and he answered with a wild cry, like a bird.
“He is only a little savage; you must tame him,” said Charles, rising and
placing the child in her arms; and bowing low before her and the mother, he
went towards the door. He paused one second on the threshold, and the last
thing he saw was the white figure of the nun, clasping in her arms the child
in its red robe and gaudy beads.
Would they ever meet again?