CHAPTER IX
TRUE MEN
“Loïs, there are five or six men on horseback just come up through the village; they are outside the gate, and are asking for Roger. Where’s mother?” and Marie Langlade dashed into the kitchen, where Loïs, her sleeves tucked up above the elbows, was busy kneading the bread.
“Roger won’t be back till to-morrow; he’s gone up country with Stark and Bradstreet after some cattle which are missing. There was a rumour of the Indians having been seen down the river, and he’s gone to reconnoitre. Mother is with Mistress Cleveland; she was ailing, and sent Charlie up to ask her to come down. She went an hour ago.”
“Then you must come out and speak to the strangers,” said Marie. “They are different from the men who usually come this way; they are neither hunters nor merchants, and they sit so straight on their horses and look so grand, and their speech is soft and pleasant.”
“I will come,” said Loïs, smiling at the description; and taking her hands out of the kneading-trough, she quickly washed them, drew down her sleeves, and went out into the porch, followed by Marie.
They were a great contrast, those two sisters,—Loïs in the dawn of early womanhood, with her soft dark hair and rich, ripe complexion, quiet and composed, as eldest daughters, upon whom tired mothers are often wont to shift a portion of their burdens, frequently are; whilst Marie was not yet seventeen, and fair as a northern maiden, with rippling golden-hued hair, a rose-leaf complexion, forget-me-not blue eyes; not beautiful in feature, but fresh and pure and lovable. Very pleasant they looked as they came out together, and at sight of them the foremost horseman sprang to the ground, opened the garden gate, and, doffing his military cap, came towards them.
“You are asking, my sister tells me, for Roger Boscowen,” said Loïs, returning his salute. “He is not at home; he is gone on an expedition, and will not be back for some days perhaps; we can never tell how long he may absent himself.”
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, in a rich, musical voice, and with an accent which told Loïs that he was no colonist, but an Englishman fresh from the old country; “doubtless,” he continued, “there is some inn where we can put up our horses and remain until his return?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Loïs; “but if you have come on business to Roger, you had better wait and see Father Nat. You look travel-stained; have you come from far?”
“We have come all the way from Albany,” answered the stranger, smiling pleasantly, “and we wish to take up our abode in your village—at least, for a time.”
“Indeed,” said Loïs, looking surprised; but too modest to question him further, she added, “If you will go with your men to the house yonder I will send for Father Nat, and you can explain your business to him.”
“But is not this Roger Boscowen’s house?” asked the traveller.
“No,” said Loïs; “this is Alpha Marsh, the Langlades’ homestead; the Boscowens live next door at Omega Marsh. But indeed it is much the same, only as you ask for Roger you had better go to his own place. I will send men to take your horses, and Nokomis will provide refreshments for your men.” She bent her head with a certain stately grace, and re-entered the house.
“Quick, Marie,” she said; “find Jim and tell him to go in search of Father Nat, and let him know of the arrival of the new-comers. I will go round to Nokomis and see that she deals out proper hospitality; she is not over given to generosity.”
Half an hour later the strangers were seated in Omega Marsh kitchen, partaking of a plentiful meal, which was rendered still more palatable served as it was by two such handmaids as Loïs and Marie. Father Nat had returned in haste when he heard of the arrival of the strangers, but he would not allow their chief to enter into any explanations until he had refreshed himself.
They were five in number: four men in the prime of life, and one lad of seventeen, whom Nathaniel recognised immediately as the son of an old acquaintance, William Parkmann, of Massachusetts. He was a mere boy in appearance, unusually tall and lanky, overgrown one might say, with an almost girl’s face—he looked so very young: yet there was no lack of character in it; the mouth and chin were firm, and the hazel eyes intelligent and even searching.
When the supper was cleared away, and the jar of tobacco and long clay pipes had been placed upon the table, the evident leader of the party turned to Nathaniel, and said with infinite courtesy,—
“After having partaken of your generous hospitality, it is time we introduced ourselves to you, my host; especially as it is our intention to remain some time in the settlement, if you will suffer us to do so.”
“Why should I hinder you? If I mistake not, you are officers in his Gracious Majesty’s army,” said Nathaniel.
“You have guessed rightly,” answered the same speaker. “I am Brigadier Howe, and my companions are Lieutenants Pringle, Philips, and Roche. I need scarcely tell you the importance of the struggle going on between France and England; it has not yet reached its height, but it will ere long, and it behoves us all to be prepared to fight to the best of our abilities for our country and her honour. I am of opinion that the ordinary system of European warfare will prove a failure when pitted against Indian and Canadian fighting; and unless we can acquire some practical knowledge of their tactics, we run a very great chance of being worsted. For the last three years you have suffered frightful aggressions along the borderland from the Indians and French, and have only been protected by the courage and abilities of your volunteer men, your Rangers, as they are called, whose captain, Roger the Ranger, is, I believe, your son. His name is in everybody’s mouth as the man of all others the most capable of rendering assistance to the colony in its present straits. Thirley, the Governor of Massachusetts, and William Johnson, of New York, Commander of the Massachusetts Volunteers, cannot say too much in his favour; and therefore we four officers of his Majesty’s army have come to him with a request that, during the present winter, he will enroll us as members of his corps of Rangers, subject us to their training, and allow us to accompany him on all his expeditions; thus we shall learn forest warfare and the ways of the enemy, and know how to deal with them. Your son will be doing inestimable service to the regular army by thus initiating us. Do you think he will consent to do this?”
“I cannot say,” answered Nathaniel. “My son has thrown himself heart and soul into the defence of the colony. But for his fame I scarcely think our settlement would have remained so long unmolested. You are acquainted with the frightful rapine and murder which the red warriors have committed in the border settlements of Virginia and Pennsylvania. The Quakers even, much against their will, have been driven into passing a militia law, by the sight of the bodies of the massacred men paraded about the streets of Philadelphia. Massachusetts has been foremost in resisting French and Indian aggression, and has taken the lead in the preparation for war. I have heard Roger say that the British army, disciplined as it is, and with officers of unrivalled bravery, will, from their ignorance of the country and of the style of warfare, be subject to many reverses. I think he would approve of your plan, but you must await his return; he will answer you himself.”
“We are quite willing to remain here,” answered Brigadier Howe, “if you will tell us where we can put up.”
Nathaniel smiled. “You are unacquainted with our New England hospitality,” he said. “We never turn a stranger from our door; we deem it would bring us ill-fortune. The Lord has sent you hither, and until your business with Roger be settled, your place is laid for you at my table and the guest-chamber is at your service.”
“But we are so numerous, and our horses will encumber your stables,” said the Brigadier.
“What Omega cannot accomplish Alpha will,” he answered quietly. “The Boscowens and Langlades, though they live each under different roofs, form but one household: it has been so for over four generations.”
“If such hospitality be amongst your traditions, far be it from me to gainsay you,” said the Brigadier. “But that name of Langlade struck me just now. I heard it lately at Albany; there was much talk of a Charles Langlade and a certain La Corne, both of them French Canadians, who had joined the Indians, taken squaw wives, and become of great importance in the tribes. Surely that Langlade has no connection with this family?”
Nathaniel’s brow darkened.
“Speak not of it,” he said sternly. “He is our eldest son. Above all things do not utter his name before Roger; they were as brothers, and he has become a thorn in his flesh.”
He had hardly finished speaking when the door opened, and Martha, accompanied by the minister and his wife, entered. Mistress Cleveland’s ailments were frequent, but never of a very serious nature—often little more than an excuse for sending to Alpha Marsh and getting Martha Langlade down for a good day’s gossip. When, therefore, the news came that strangers had arrived, she declared herself quite equal to the exertion of accompanying her husband and Martha—indeed, the walk she felt sure would be beneficial to her; and so they set forth together, curious to know who the newcomers might be. Marcus and the younger members of the family soon followed, so that the kitchen was full; and the murmur of many voices and occasional laughter struck pleasantly on the ear.
Marcus, though some years older, promptly made friends with William Parkmann, and heard with interest all that was going on in the States.
The young man spoke with enthusiastic affection of Brigadier Howe; to his young imagination he was evidently a hero.
“He will save the colonies,” he affirmed, “because he’s young and goes to work in the right way. He is not likely to fall into an ambuscade, as General Braddock did.”
“We will hope not,” said Marcus; “one such experience is sufficient.”
“I wish you would talk of something besides fighting and Indians,” said Marie, leaning her elbows on the table. “It is the same thing every day. I am so tired of it.”
“I am afraid you will be much more tired before it is over, Marie,” said her brother; “the great struggle has yet to come. One thing is certain, French and English cannot live together as neighbours unless the former will take the oath of allegiance, and that their priests will never allow them to do.”
“I hope we shall never hear again of anything so dreadful as the expulsion from Grandpré two years ago,” said Loïs. “Fancy husbands and wives, parents and children, torn away from each other, sent hundreds of miles apart, never to meet again! That seems to me worse than death; the yearning and the longing, the never-ceasing anxiety, must be so very terrible!” and tears filled her eyes, whilst her voice trembled with emotion.
“Yes, worse than death,” said a low, deep voice behind her. “Death means peace, reunion, love. Why should we fear it, if we but remember His promise, ‘Fear not, I am with thee’?” Loïs turned round, and met the kindly eyes of Brigadier Howe bent on her.
“Yes,” she answered, “there are many worse things than death—this continuous warfare, the horrors of the savages, brother warring against brother. Oh! when will it end? when shall we have peace?” and the tears which she had striven to restrain rolled down her face.
“There, there, Loïs,” said Marcus soothingly. “It will come in due time; we are all striving after it.”
“The war is drawing to a close,” said Brigadier Howe. “England has taken up the gauntlet in good earnest at last; William Pitt is at the helm, and he will not rest until Canada is a settled English Protestant colony.”
“Amen,” said Minister Cleveland; “and now, mistress, it’s time we went home; it is getting late, and the travellers will be glad to go to rest. Good-night to you all,” and there was a great hand-shaking. Loïs helped Mistress Cleveland on with her cloak and hood, commending her to be careful not to take a chill; then the lantern was lit, and the young people trooped down to the gate to start them on their way home. Martha took this opportunity of speaking to Father Nat.
“You must not take all the five guests, father,” she said; “have you forgotten that we also have our guest-chamber?” and she drew herself up with dignity.
“Not likely I should forget,” he answered; “choose which of them you will have, Martha, or shall they cast lots? Women rule the roost here, sir, as they do elsewhere,” he said, turning to Howe. “Mistress Martha will have it she has a right to the honour of entertaining some of your party; you went to her gate first, it seems.”
“True,” said Howe, smiling. “We are flattered by your desire, madam. We think there is one amongst us who has already found a flame, and is trying to singe his wings; if she lead the way, he will not refuse to follow,” and as he spoke he looked towards where Marie and William Parkmann were talking to each other.
“Tut!” said Martha. “Marie’s only a child.”
“To our mothers we are always children,” said Howe sweetly.
“He’s a nice lad,” said Martha kindly; “let him come, and one other.”
“The young with the young,” said Howe, smiling. “What do you say to Roche?”
“He is welcome,” said Martha, smiling.
“Roche and Parkmann,” said Howe, speaking with a tone of military command, “you are billeted on Dame Martha Langlade.”
“Very good, sir,” answered the two young men gladly.
A general move followed, good-nights were exchanged, Marcus helped Father Nat show his guests to their rooms, and then they all separated; only Father Nat and Brigadier Howe remained in the chimney corner.
“If you’ve no objection, we’ll smoke one pipe together before we part company, Father Nat. I am anxious to ask you a few questions,” said Howe.
“You can ask,” answered the father; “maybe I’ll answer you, maybe I won’t.”
“I think you will answer me,” said Howe gently, as he filled his pipe from the jar of tobacco Father Nat pushed towards him. Stooping, he picked an ember out of the hearth and lit it, and then he leant back thoughtfully in the old armchair as the white smoke slowly curled up the wide open chimney.