ON THE BATTLE-FIELD
The silver light of the moon was shining down on the battle-field, where the
dead and dying lay in hideous confusion, the night after the fray. Dark
figures moved stealthily to and fro, lanterns flashed on ghastly upturned
faces, piteous voices called for help, hands were stretched out praying for
mercy, too often only to meet death and spoliation. Birds of prey hovered
overhead. Alas for poor human nature! there were those abroad who reverenced
neither heroism nor death, but laid rude hands on their fellow-men, robbing
and mutilating the prostrate forms as they lay writhing in death’s agony.
A group of half a dozen men in the well-known dress of the Royal Rangers had
found their way to that part of the battle-field where the Indians had made
their last fierce onslaught. The near approach of death had not extinguished
the passionate instincts of hatred and revenge; more than once the treacherous
knife gleamed in a dying hand seeking still to slay. Every precaution had to
be taken by the searchers, as they picked their way over the ground strewn so
thickly with the dead and dying, to avoid the murderous thrusts.
“Look here, Captain!” and the speaker, a young man, pointed to where a red
chief lay, with a little child clasped in his arms. A shot had pierced the
baby heart, in kindly mercy quieting for ever its wild fluttering; but the
blue eyes were wide open still, and retained that look of terror mirrored in
them which gleamed there when death came, and the long fair curls were dabbled
in blood.
The man who had been addressed as Captain stood looking down upon the group.
Pain, bitter pain, was visible in every line of his face. “It is Ominipeg,” he
said, and stooping, he lifted the dead child in his arms and wrapped it in his
bearskin. He and his companions knew enough of Indian customs to understand
how that infant came by his death--a chief’s son in the foremost ranks of the
slain!
They renewed their search; and, at last, amidst those dark naked figures, with
their wild headgear and strange fantastic war-paint, they found him they
sought. He was lying propped up against a tree; evidently, when the battle was
over, he had dragged himself thither. Was he dead? Roger bent eagerly over
him, and took the hand which hung listlessly by his side.
“Charles,” he said; and the strong man’s voice trembled.
“Roger, am I dreaming, or have you come to take me home?”
The drooping head is raised, and the cold fingers close over Roger’s.
“We will go home together,” he said. “Are you much hurt, Charles?”
“I do not know,” he answered dreamily. “Is the battle over? Are we beaten?”
“The battle is ended,” said Roger; “and God grant it may be our last,” and he
signed to his men that the search was finished, that their help was needed.
They lifted the wounded man in their arms and slowly bore him off the
battle-field to where in the moonlight clustered the white tents of the
Rangers, and there they laid him down.
Quebec had capitulated, notwithstanding Levis’ rapid march to its relief.
Ramsay paid but little attention to Montcalm’s last words, and, encouraged by
Vaudreuil, on the 18th surrendered to the English. Honourable terms were
granted. The garrison was to march out with the honours of war, and the troops
be carried back to France on English ships; the inhabitants to have protection
in person and property, free exercise of their religion, and all other
privileges of British subjects. These conditions having been formally agreed
to and signed, the British flag was raised on the heights near Mount Street,
and General Murray was named Governor of Quebec.
As soon as he could do so, Roger had brought Charles into the city. He was
unconscious at the time, and the military surgeon gave but faint hope of his
recovery. It was a battle between life and death, but youth and a strong
constitution aiding, Roger was at last rewarded by seeing Charles enter upon
what might be called convalescence; but by that time winter had set in, and
there was no possibility of communicating with Marshwood. “I ought to have
thought of sending a messenger immediately after the battle,” Roger said; “but
I didn’t know quite what you meant to do, so I waited, and now it is too
late.” So time passed on.
One evening, a lady, deeply veiled, came to the house where the two friends
lodged, and, asking to see Mr. Langlade, was admitted.
Charles was seated in an armchair near the large open fireplace; he turned as
the stranger entered, and, when she raised her veil, exclaimed, “Madame Péan!”
“Yes,” she said, coming forward; “I heard you were in Quebec, where I myself
have been detained by severe illness, and I have come to you with a message
from Mercèdes Montcalm.”
“She is well, I trust?” said Charles, in a low voice.
“Yes, she is,” answered Madame Péan, “and the day after to-morrow she takes
the veil. I have done the best I could to dissuade her, offering to take her
back with me to France in the spring, but she will not listen to me; her
place, she says, is by her father’s grave, in the convent garden, and the
Bishop and Mother Superior have consented to shorten her novitiate. One thing
troubles her, the loss of the child committed to her care by you. When I heard
you were in Quebec I told her, and she entreated me to come to you without
delay, to hear what had become of the child.”
“He is dead,” said Charles; “his mother’s tribe stole him, lest he should be
made a prisoner, and he was killed. Tell her this, or not, as you deem best.”
“If you will, you can tell her yourself,” said Madame. “She bids farewell to
her friends to-night; if you come to the convent, you can have speech with her
for the last time.”
“I will come,” said Charles, his pale face flushing.
“She thought you would,” said Madame; “she has not many friends to whom to bid
farewell, and the General loved you.”
“Not better than I loved him,” said Charles, rousing himself. “Tell
Mademoiselle Mercèdes I will be at the convent to-night after vespers; and
thank you a thousand times for coming to me. I would not have missed seeing
her once more, for all the world,” and he held out his hand to Madame Péan.
“I guessed as much,” she answered. Their eyes met, and she slowly shook her
head. “It is too late,” she said; “all that was earthly in her heart and soul
has dropped away from her and lies buried in her father’s grave. She has no
thoughts left which are not of heaven. And now I will leave you. As soon as
to-morrow’s ceremony is over I go to Montreal. Is there any service I can
render you? any request you have to make to Chevalier Levis? He is well aware
how you have behaved throughout the war, and would be only too glad if you
would join his poor remnant of an army, with which he still hopes to wrest
Canada from the English.”
Charles shook his head.
“He will never do that,” he said. “The cause is lost; he will only uselessly
sacrifice fresh lives. Is it not so, Roger?”
“Most certainly it is. But, Madame,” said Roger, “if you would do my friend a
real service, it would be to obtain from the Chevalier for him and for me a
free pass through all the country still occupied by the French troops. We are
anxious to return to our people, but without this it would be almost
impossible during the winter; we should have to take such a circuitous route,
and my friend’s health is not sufficiently recovered to resist the cold and
fatigue; if we can pass through Montreal, it will shorten the journey
greatly.”
“I will do my best,” said Madame Péan. “And now farewell; we are none of us
likely to meet again in this world. When the last French ship leaves the
shores of Canada, I shall sail in her, and go back to old France.” She dropped
her veil and rose. Charles also rose, and silently they shook hands; then
Roger re-conducted her to her carriage, and they took leave of each other.
She had said truly they were never to meet again.
That evening, as he had promised, Charles went alone to the convent. He waited
what seemed to him an eternity in the parlour, watching anxiously a grated
window in the wall, across which was a dark curtain; at last he saw it slowly
drawn back, and on the opposite side, with a face almost as white as her veil,
stood Mercèdes.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, in a low, calm voice. “Before bidding my
last farewell to the world, I desired greatly to see you, to tell you how I
have grieved for the child you committed to my care. I loved him very dearly.
I would not have parted from him if I could possibly have done otherwise; but
we were taken by surprise. Before even Marthe, who was in the room with him,
was aware of it, he was gone; we had no time to prevent it; he was truly
spirited away. I pray you forgive me: it has been a bitter grief to me.”
“Forgive you!” exclaimed Charles. “Surely you never for one moment thought I
blamed either you or Marthe? Knowing the Indians would use every means in
their power to get hold of my poor little son, I placed him with you,
believing he must be safe in the convent. How could either of us imagine you
would be driven out into the world again? How can I harbour one thought of
blame against you! Indeed, I almost think it best for him to be at rest. Had
he lived, his would have been a very divided life. He must have suffered, and
I for him. I am content. It is well with the child.”
“I am thankful to hear you speak thus,” answered Mercèdes. “Truly all God does
is well done. And now, Monsieur Langlade, I will bid you farewell. You will go
back to the world to which, to-morrow, I shall for ever bid adieu; but I wish
to thank you for many pleasant hours and for much kindness, but, above all
things, for your faithfulness to my dear father. I beg you to cherish his
memory, and be assured I shall ever remember you in my prayers.”
“No one who has ever lived with General Montcalm as I have can possibly forget
him. I shall cherish his memory as long as I live,” said Charles, with deep
emotion.
“Thanks, I am glad to think it will be so,” and a faint smile lighted up her
pale face. “Adieu!” and she passed her hand between the iron bars. “Wear this
in remembrance of him,” she added, slipping a ring of great price on his
finger.
“I will never part with it. Adieu,” repeated Charles, and stooping, he touched
the tips of her fingers with his lips. When he raised his head she had
disappeared.
The following morning he was amongst the spectators who witnessed the ceremony
of Mercèdes Montcalm taking the veil, and as he left the chapel his heart was
very sad within him.