“What I am about to ask you is from no idle curiosity, but because my interest has been aroused for some time past by all I have heard of your son and his exploits. He is spoken of as a hard man, a splendid disciplinarian, reckless of his own life, fearing neither God nor man, with but one object in life—the driving of the Indian and the French out of the country. Is this so?”
A moment’s hesitation, then Father Nat answered: “It is true. Until three years ago there was not a more God-fearing, braver, brighter lad along the length and breadth of the New England border than Roger Boscowen. He and Charles Langlade were cited as model young men; there were no better farmers, no better hunters than they, and their conduct was irreproachable. I seem to hear them still whistling as they went and came about the place. Roger is my only child, and somehow it grew to be a sort of accepted thing that in due time he should marry Loïs. You saw her to-day, the eldest Langlade girl; a sweeter woman it would be impossible to find on the face of the earth. They were very fond of each other: when the young men were at home the three were always together. Ah! those were happy days; but from the hour Charles Langlade left his home the change began. Roger struggled against it at first; but after the affair at Miamis, in which Old Britain was killed and Roger nearly met his death by the hand of Charles himself, he has been a changed man, sombre and stern. He told Loïs in a few words that all was over between them. What actually passed no one knows, but since that day, beyond a simple ‘good day’ or ‘good evening,’ they have never been seen to speak together. He has never recrossed the threshold of Alpha Marsh, and when he is at Omega Marsh, neither her mother nor Loïs comes here. He endures the younger ones, but he seldom looks at or speaks with them. He is rarely at home, and has not been to chapel for more than three years. When the minister would have exhorted him, he turned away with a bitter laugh. His heart is hardened, his whole nature is changed!”
And Nat shook the ashes out of his pipe and relapsed into silence.
“It is a sad story; something I had heard of it before coming here,” said Howe. “But cheer up, father. God’s ways are not man’s ways: it is hard for us to understand His dealings with us,—better not try; better in simple faith believe that what ‘He doeth is well done.’ I have heard Roger’s exploits spoken of as something marvellous. His knowledge of Indian warfare is so perfect that it is almost impossible for them to waylay him. It is averred that he could conduct an army through the forest on the darkest night. Probably had he continued to lead the life of an ordinary hunter he would never have attained this degree of perfection; and we need such a man now. Surely God has raised him up for our deliverance.”
“Maybe, maybe,” answered Father Nat; “Loïs has said as much, and she is far-sighted.”
“She seems a right noble woman,” said Howe. “Has she taken Roger’s desertion much to heart?”
“You have seen her; does she look like a love-sick girl?” said Father Nat, almost indignantly. “Nay, nay; our Loïs is a brave, God-fearing maiden. She never even winced at the pain he gave her, but went about her work as if naught had happened. And she has never changed; she keeps my house in order, and is her mother’s right hand. No one ever touches Roger’s things but herself; she comes and goes from early morning till late at night, and there is no shadow on her brow. Ah, she’s a bonnie woman, God bless her!” and Father Nat’s voice was husky.
“Truly she must be,” answered Howe; and, remembering the words she had spoken, “There are many things worse than death,” he recognised that here, at least, was one who had early learnt the lesson “to suffer and be strong.”
Suddenly the silence was broken by the loud barking of dogs, and men’s steps were heard coming across the courtyard, followed by a shrill whistle.
“It’s Roger!” said Nathaniel, rising. “I never thought he’d be back so soon; either he has found the rumours false or he wants more men.”
He left the kitchen, and Howe heard the back door unbarred, and by the sounds he could guess that three or four men had entered the house. They conversed for some time in low voices; then there was a clatter of knives and forks. The officer felt his presence was causing inconvenience; yet he sat on, so intense was his desire to see this man of whom he had heard so much.
His patience was rewarded after a time; he heard leave-taking, and the outer door open and shut. A few minutes after Father Nat reappeared, and behind him towered a man of unusual height, broad-shouldered, large-limbed, dressed in a plain grey hunting suit with tan-leather leggings. His face was rough-hewn, cut in a large mould; hair and beard, both of a reddish hue, were cropped close; his eyes were of that peculiarly dark grey showing blue in some lights, and black when the feelings were wrought to an unusual pitch. In childhood and youth they had been remarkable for their brightness, now at most times they were sombre with a lurid light. Taken as a whole, it was a passionate face, as of a man at war with himself and with the world. His brow was broad and massive; there was intellect and strength in every line; but the predominant expression was one of pain, of suffering, of revolt, indicated more especially by the two deep lines between his eyebrows. He went straight across the room and held out his hand to Howe, who rose and came forward to meet him.
“My father has told me your purpose,” he said, “and I know who you are. I will not insult you by asking you if you really mean to subject yourself to such training; you have said it, that is enough. If, when you have tried it for one month, you or your companions find yourselves physically unequal to withstand the hardships of such a life, you can stop; you will at all events have learnt enough to help you to avoid the mistakes which have already been made, and which have proved so disastrous.”
“That is just what I desire,” answered Howe; “and I need say no more, for I see you recognise how important it is that we British officers should have the knowledge necessary to enable us to discipline and command our men in this new warfare.”
“I do fully; I have thought so for a long time. I have often wondered why you failed to take steps to acquire that knowledge,” answered Roger.
“Because officers are scarce,” said Howe. “I have at last, with difficulty, obtained the leave necessary to permit me to join your scouting parties this winter. In the spring, of course, we shall have active engagements, and, I hope, soon make an end of the war. Pitt is determined to carry things with a high hand, and is sending out reinforcements, whereas France is satisfied to leave everything to her general; and though Montcalm is a splendid officer, and the Canadians and Indians are devoted to him, he must in the long run give in, unless he receives fresh troops from home.”
“Which is not likely,” answered Roger, seating himself, and throwing a fresh log of wood on the dying embers.
Brigadier Howe was at this time three-and-thirty years of age—nearly six years Roger’s senior, but he looked much younger. They represented two distinct types: the delicately nurtured, high-bred Englishman, with less actual physical strength than his New England brother, but possessed of an equal power of endurance, because of the stronger moral principle, the higher spiritual and mental perfection to which he had attained, bringing the body into subjection.
That night those two sat long over the fire. Father Nat wisely left them together; and when they parted both recognised in the other a kindred soul. Their interests were in common, their object the same: the conquest of Canada, the driving out of an alien power; only the incentives differed. Brigadier Howe fought for England and for the Protestant faith, Roger because he hated the Indian and the Canadian. No personal feelings animated Howe; with Roger they were entirely personal—vengeance for the loss of his friend, and hatred because of the pain that loss inflicted on him. Neither of them recognised these shades of difference; their aim, and the end they had in view, united them, and they were both satisfied with each other.