It did not take the English officers and William Parkmann long to settle down in their new home; the life was so free and easy. Before they had been a week at Marshwood they knew and were known of the whole colony, and were immense favourites. The dangers which surrounded the colonists were becoming daily more and more evident. Scarcely a week passed but what news came of villages burnt and sacked, and of the atrocious cruelties perpetrated by the Indians. So far Marshwood had been unmolested, owing, it was generally supposed, to Roger’s renown and the number of scouts or Rangers always about. Roger began at once to put the new recruits into training, taking them out into the forests, and organising mimic fights. Brigadier Howe, as he chose to be called, though Roger knew full well that his real title and rank were Brigadier-General Lord Howe, was in right good earnest, and applied himself thoroughly to the study of forest warfare. His companions followed his example; they had their hair cut close like the Rangers, dressed themselves after the same fashion, wearing leggings to protect them from the briers. As soon as Roger considered them sufficiently trained, they accompanied him on expeditions to the frontier; upon which occasions each man had to carry in his knapsack thirty pounds of meat,—this being the only food they had to depend upon, and which they cooked themselves,—one blanket, and a bearskin.
Before the middle of November the snow lay thick upon the ground, and the rivers were icebound. A great stillness seemed to descend upon the land, and the Rangers dispersed to their homes, with the exception of a certain number of scouts, who remained on guard. Roger was mostly with them, and Brigadier Howe was always in his company. A great feeling of sympathy grew up between the two men. Different as their characters were, yet they understood each other, Howe’s gentle, energetic nature tending to soften and hold in check the violence and strong-headedness of his companion. Roger learned to admire the indomitable will which enabled this delicate nobleman, accustomed to all the luxury and refinement of civilised life, to face the greatest hardships willingly, and without a murmur. Nothing held him back; where Roger went he went, always bright and cheery, seeming to have no thought of self. There was an undercurrent running through his life which Roger was slow to recognise, because he was unwilling to do so—namely, an unobtrusive piety.
He made no religious boast, he was seldom heard to speak of those things which were in very truth nearest his heart, but his daily life bore testimony to his faith. A small pocket Bible was his never-failing companion, and often by the camp fire, when his comrades lay sleeping, wrapped in their blankets and bearskins, Roger watched him draw it forth, and by the flickering flame peruse the sacred volume.
Whenever it was possible, he coaxed Roger to cease warfare on the Sabbath Day, and to return to Marshwood, often accomplishing the homeward journey under very adverse circumstances and with great fatigue; but nevertheless he was sure to be in his place in chapel, an attentive listener to John Cleveland’s exhortations. The minister was his most devoted admirer, and declared to Nathaniel that the Englishman’s example had worked a wonderful change on the young men in the colony. Only Roger held aloof in sombre pride. Yet, notwithstanding the coming danger which threatened them all, and which at any moment might overtake them, it was impossible to check the natural enjoyment which sprang up, the result of youth and health. The clear atmosphere was so exhilarating that the young people could not remain within doors. Sleighing parties, tobogganing, skating on the lakes and rivers, occupied every spare minute of the short winter day. Shouts of merry laughter rang out on the frosty air. All the inhabitants of the village would turn out on fine afternoons, making their way in snowshoes down to the icebound river, and there disporting themselves, sometimes till the moon and stars shone out; and then back home to the warm kitchens and the hospitable boards.
“We are having a fine time of it. I never had a finer in my life,” said young William Parkmann, as he flew over the ice side by side with Marie Langlade.
“Yes, we always have a good time in winter,” she answered; “but this year it seems better than usual,” and she looked shyly at her companion.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he answered. “I shall never forget how happy I have been; and perhaps, Marie, when this war is over, if God spare my life, I may come back and ask something of you!” and as he skated close up to her, he slipped his arm into hers, and so bore her on even more rapidly than before. There was joy for both of them at that moment in the mere fact of living. The sun shone brightly on the glistening snow, which covered alike the hills and plains, weighing down the branches of the forest trees; but to William Parkmann Marie’s eyes shone brighter than the rays of the sun, and her voice was very sweet, though somewhat serious, as she answered,—
“When the war is over, William Parkmann—not till then—must you ask or I answer you aught.”
“Let it be so,” he replied; and they skated on in happy silence, dreams of a bright future dancing before their eyes. They were so young—
“Hope at the helm
And pleasure at the prow”—
they could not realise the possibility of a great disaster coming upon them; but their elders both could and did.
The head members of the settlement met every evening, and took counsel for the general safety. To these meetings Howe was readily admitted; they were generally held in the great kitchen of Omega Marsh, and Father Nathaniel presided. He knew the ways of the Indians as well as his son, and patrols were organised, and everything done to prevent a sudden surprise of the enemy. He and John Cleveland and Marcus took the command of the home brigade, as they called it, which consisted chiefly of youths, and of men past their prime; all the really able-bodied men were enrolled in Roger’s corps of Rangers, and were liable at any moment to be called into action.
When the meeting dispersed, Father Nat and Brigadier Howe would open the latchet gate which separated the two homesteads, and go over to Alpha Marsh and sit with Martha and Loïs, who were always busy making and mending for the two households. Howe watched Loïs as she went and came day after day, caring for everybody, the young and the old, without apparently one selfish thought; and he felt inclined to be angry with Roger for visiting upon this inoffensive, brave-hearted woman the sorrow which had entered into his own soul. She did not resent his conduct; to all outward appearance she was indifferent to his comings or his goings, doing her daily work methodically, interested in every one and in everything, from a sick baby in the village to the last bit of news from Quebec or from the New England States.
But news did not travel quickly in those days or in those parts, and the winter was far advanced when they first heard of the taking of Fort William Henry by the French. Some scouts of Roger’s arrived one night, with an account of the frightful massacre by the Indians which had followed the surrender of the fort. Montcalm and the French officers had been powerless to restrain them. The English officer, Colonel Monro, who was in command of the fort, held out as long as there was any hope of relief; but when General Webb from Fort Edward failed to come to his assistance, and he found himself on all sides surrounded by a French army commanded by Montcalm in person, hoping to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, he hoisted the white flag.
Montcalm thereupon summoned the Indian chiefs, and explained to them the honourable terms of capitulation which he had agreed to, requesting their adhesion to the same. They gave their consent, promising to restrain their men; but no sooner had the garrison evacuated the fort than the Indians, drunk with rum, rushed in a surging rabble, which, even if the French guards had exerted themselves to their utmost—which they did not, owing either to fear of the Indians or indifference—it would have been impossible to restrain. A terrible scene of murder and rapine ensued. Montcalm tried to restore tranquillity, and by evening some sort of order reigned in the terrified fortress, and the Canadians, under their general, De la Corne, agreed to conduct the English the following morning to Fort Edward. But a panic came over the unfortunate inhabitants, and in their terror they started without waiting for the escort. Instantly the Indians rushed down upon them, and an indescribable scene of plunder followed. The savages carried off upwards of two hundred prisoners, men and women, tomahawking and scalping hundreds more, before the very eyes of De la Corne and his Canadians.
Montcalm, Levis, and the French officers rushed down into the midst of the fight, and, throwing themselves upon the English, positively tore them out of the hands of the Indians.
“Kill me, but spare the English, who are under my protection!” shouted Montcalm, snatching a young officer away from a savage who had just seized him, and covering him with his own body.
Montcalm has been severely blamed for not ordering up the regular French army to save the English; but being very inferior in number to the Indians and Canadians, doubtless he considered that if he turned his arms against his allies, the massacre would be even more sanguinary.
This is partly proved by the fact that the column of the English army offered no resistance: true, they had no ammunition; only a few of the colonial troops had bayonets. Had they shown fight they would probably all have been massacred; as it was, they were carried off alive by the savages, and later Montcalm was able to recover five or six hundred. Some of the fugitives found their way back to the fort; and all these were sent by Montcalm under a strong escort to Fort Edward. The remnant of the column dispersed into the woods, and found their way, after many days and great perils, to Fort Edward.
“I am dishonoured,” said Montcalm that night, pacing up and down his tent, brushing away the tears from his eyes. “The sights I have seen, the sounds I have heard this day, will haunt me all my life long!” Nothing Chevalier Levis or his other officers could say consoled him. He refused to see De la Corne or any of the Canadian officers; only once he exclaimed, “If Charles Langlade had been here, this dishonour would not have fallen upon me!”
Such was the news which reached Marshwood.