Читать книгу Gleaner Tales - Robert Sellar - Страница 8

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On the afternoon of the second day after the events of last chapter, Allan Forsyth returned from his daily visit to Camp la Fourche excited and indignant. “What think ye,” he said to his wife and Maggie, “Lieutenant Morton is in the hands o’ the Yankees and they’re gaun to hang him.”

Maggie paled and involuntarily stepped nearer her father.

“The deils that they be; hoo did they get haud o’ him?” asked Mrs Forsyth.

“The story is sune tell’t,” replied her husband. “He was sent, as ye ken, wi’ a despatch to the lines; while there he took part in a bit skirmish, an’ the day after was found by the Yankees lyin’ wounded in the woods beside the body o’ a Yankee officer.”

“Weel, they canna hang him for that. Gin the Yankees will fecht, they maun expect to be kilt.”

“Ah, ye dinna understan. They say their officer wasna kilt in regular coorse o’ war. The body was scalped and carvt in a gruesome fashion, showing plainly the hand o’ the Indian, an’ they hold Mr Morton accountable.”

“But he didna scalp the Yankee?”

“True, gudewife, but he winna tell them wha did. His sword they found beside the corpse, showing they had been in mortal combat.”

“Is he sorely wounded?” asked Maggie.

“I canna say for that. It’s no likely, for they had him oot ae evening to hang him, and took a better thocht when he was below the gallows.”

“How did you hear all this?”

“A messenger came in today with letters from him, sent across the lines under a flag o’ truce. It was said in camp Major Stovin was stampin’ angry and was going to write back that gin a hair o’ the Lieutenant’s head is harmed he will hang every Yankee officer that fa’s into his hans. I gaed ower to see the messenger and he tell’t me the word went that Morton defied General Hampton and his officers to do their worst, that, to save his life, he wadna bring disgrace on his commission.”

“Who is the messenger: has he gone back?”

“He’s a young lad, a son o’ ane o’ the settlers in Hinchinbrook. He goes back tomorrow with letters from Major Stovin.”

“Will he see Morton?”

“No, no: to be sure thae folk on the lines gang back an’ forrit, but they’re no likely to let him near. His letters will be taken at the outposts.”

“Do you think Major Stovin’s letter will save him?”

“That it won’t. The lad said the Yankees were fair wud ower the death o’ their officer an’ will hang puir Morton to a dead certainty gin he doesna reveal to them wha did the deed.”

“An’ for what will he no tell?” asked Mrs Forsyth.

“That he kens best. Maybe gratitude to an Indian ca’d Hemlock seals his lips, for oor men believe he was with him at the time.”

“What does Hemlock say?” interjected Maggie.

“He’s no in camp. He came back three days ago and left for Oka, where he bides.”

Until bedtime Morton was the subject of conversation, and the more they talked of him the keener their interest grew in his serious situation. That one whom they had learned to like and respect so much should die an ignominious death shocked them, and even Mrs Forsyth was constrained to say, that much as she disliked Yankees, “Gin I were near eneuch to walk to him, I wad gang on my knees to Hampton to beg his life.”

Next morning, while engaged in the stable, Mr Forsyth was surprised by the appearance of his daughter.

“Hey, my woman, what’s garrd you to come oot in the grey o’ the mornin’? Time eneuch an hour frae this.”

“Father, I could not sleep and I wanted to speak to you. If Hemlock was brought back, would he not save Morton?”

“Ah, he winna come back. Doubtless he kens the Yankees wad rax his neck for him. His leevin for hame shows he is afeard o’ what he has dune.”

“Yet there’s no other hope of saving Morton.”

“Too true; gin the actual slayer o’ the officer is not surrendered within a few days poor Morton will suffer.”

“Well, then, father, you cannot go to seek for Hemlock, and my brothers would not be allowed to leave their duty in camp, so I will go. I can be in Oka before dark and will see Hemlock.”

“Dinna think o’ such a thing,” entreated the father, “the road is lang an’ the Indian wad just laugh at you gin you found him, which is dootful.”

A favorite child has little difficulty in persuading a parent, and before many minutes Mr Forsyth was won over, declaring “it wad be a shame gin we did naething to try an’ save the puir lad.” It was arranged she should go at once, the father undertaking to break the news to his wife. All her other preparations having been made beforehand, the slipping of a plaid over her head and shoulders rendered her fit for the journey, and with a cheery goodbye to her father she stepped quickly away. She went to the camp at La Fourche, where she surprised her brothers and got them to search out the messenger who had brought the startling tidings. She had a talk with him, learning all he knew of Morton. Then she went to see the Indians in camp, who readily enough told what little they knew of Hemlock. They believed he was at Oka and did not expect him back, as he said he would join the force that was being assembled above Cornwall to meet Wilkinson. Thus informed she took the road, a mere bush track, that led to Annfield Mills, now known as the town of Beauharnois, which she reached in the course of two hours or so and walked straight to the house of the only person in it who she thought could help her. It was a log-shanty built on the angle where the St Louis rushes brawling past and the calm waters of the bay, and was of unusual length, the front end being devoted to the purposes of an office. The door stood open and Maggie walked into a little den, in one corner of which stood a desk with pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, and beside it were a few shelves filled with bottles and odds-and-ends, the whole dusty, dark, and smelling of tobacco. At the desk sat a little man, dressed in blue with large gilt buttons.

“Oh, ho, is this you, Maggie Forsyth? Often have I gone to see you, but this is the first time you have dropped in to see me.”

“See you, you withered auld stick! I just dropped in to speer a few questions at you.”

“Auld stick, Mag; I’m no sae auld that I canna loe ye.”

“Maybe, but I dinna loe you.”

“Look here, lassie; see this bit airn kistie; its fu o’ siller dollars; eneuch to varnish an auld stick an keep a silken gown on yer back every day o’ the year.”

“An eneuch in thae dirty bottles to pooshen me when ye wad?”

“Ha, ha, my lass; see what it is to hae lear. I didna gang four lang sessions to new college, Aberdeen, for naething. I can heal as well as pooshen. It’s no every lassie has a chance to get a man o’ my means and learnin.”

“Aye, an its no every lassie that wad want them alang wi’ an auld wizened body.”

“Hech, Mag, ye’re wit is ower sharp. When a man’s going down hill, ilka body gies him a jundie. If ye winna, anither will, but we’ll let that flee stick i’ the wa’ for awhile. Where is your faither?”

“At hame: I just walked ower.”

“Walked ower yer lane, an a’ thae sogers an’ Indians roun!”

“If yer ceevil ye’ll meet wi’ ceevilty, Mr Milne; an’ I’m gaun farther this day, an’ just looked in for yer advice.”

“Oh ye maun hae a drap after your walk,” and here he pulled out a big watch from his fob. “Gracious! it is 20 minutes ayont my time for a dram.”

Stooping beneath the table that answered for a counter, he filled a grimy tin measure, which he tendered to Maggie, who shook her head. “Na, na, I dinna touch it.”

Finding persistence useless, he raised the vessel to his mouth and with a “Here’s tae ye,” emptied it. “Hech, that does me guid,—but no for lang. Noo, lass, what can I do to serve you?”

Maggie unreservedly told him all. “An’ what’s this young Morton to you?”

“Naething mair than ony neebur lad.”

“Tell that to my grannie,” said the old buck, “I can see through a whin stane as far as onybody an’ noo unnerstan why ye turn yer back on a graduate o’ new college, Aberdeen, wi’ a kist o’ siller, and a’ for a penniless leftenant.”

“Think what thochts ye may, Mr Milne, but they’re far astray. The lad is naething to me nor me to him. I am going to Oka because nae man-body is allowed to leave the camp, and I couldna stay at hame gin it was in my power to save a fellow-creature’s life.”

“An what can I do to help you to save him?”

“Help me to reach Oka and find Hemlock.”

“Were it no for thae stoury war-times I wad get out my boat and gang mysel’, and there’s naebody to send wi’ you. My lass, gif ye’ll no turn hame again, ye’ll have to walk the road your lane.”

“I hae set my face to the task an’ I’ll no gang hame.”

“Weel, then, ye’ll hae a snack wi’ me an’ I’ll direct ye as well as may be.”

A few rods up the St Louis, in the centre of the stream, where it trickled over a series of rocky shelves, stood a small mill, and on the adjoining bank the house of the miller, and thither they went and had something to eat. The miller’s wife, a good-looking woman, could not speak English, but made up her lack in lively gesticulations, while Maggie helped the common understanding with odd words and phrases in French. Justice done to the food hurriedly spread before them, Maggie walked back with Milne until they stood in front of the house.

“There,” he said, pointing to planks resting on big stones, “you cross the St Louis and keep the track until you come to the first house after you pass the rapids. It is not far, but the road is shockingly bad. There you will ask them to ferry you to the other side, when you’ve a long walk to the Ottawa before you. I’d advise you to turn yet.” Maggie shook her head decisively. “Weel, weel, so be it; he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. Here tak this,” and he put in her hand two silver dollars.

Maggie winced. “I’ll hae nae need o’ siller.”

“Ye dinna ken; ye may get into trouble that money will help you out o’. Dinna fear to take it; I’ve made (and here his voice sank to a whisper) I’ve made a hunner o’ thae bricht lads by ae guid run o’ brandy kegs across the Hinchinbrook line. It’s Yankee siller.”

Maggie smiled and, as if the questionable mode of their acquisition justified their acceptance, clasped them, and nodding to the little man, tripped her way to the other side of the river. The road, as predicted, proved execrable. Walled in and shadowed by trees, neither breeze nor sunlight penetrated to dry it, and it was a succession of holes filled with liquid mud. So bad was it, that an attempt to haul a small cannon along it had to be abandoned despite the efforts of horses, oxen, and a party of blue jackets. Tripping from side to side, and occasionally passing an unusually deep hole by turning into the bush, Maggie made all haste. Once only she halted. A party of artillerymen and sailors were raising a breastwork at the head of the Cascade rapids, whereon to mount a gun that would sweep the river, and she watched them for a while. That was the only sign of life along the road until the white-washed shanty of the ferryman came in sight, in front of which a troop of half-naked children were tumbling in boisterous play, and who set up a shrill cry of wonder when they saw her. Their mother, so short and stout as to be shapeless, came to the door in response to their cries and gazed wonderingly at the stranger. She volubly returned Maggie’s salutation and led her into the house, the interior of which was as bare as French Canadian houses usually are, but clean and tidy. Her husband was away, helping to convey stores to the fort at the Coteau, and there was not, to her knowledge, a man within three miles capable of ferrying her across. Could not madam paddle her over? The woman’s hands went up in pantomimic amazement. Would she tempt the good God by venturing in a canoe alone with a woman? Did she not know the current was swift, and led to the rapids whose roaring she heard! No, she must stay overnight, and her good man would take her over in the morning. Maggie could only submit and seated herself behind the house, to gaze towards the other bank which she was so anxious to set foot upon. From where she sat, the bank abruptly sank to a depth of perhaps thirty feet, where a little bay gave shelter to a canoe and a large boat fitted to convey a heavy load. Beyond the rocks that headed the tiny inlet, which thus served as a cove for the ferryman’s boats, the river swept irresistibly, and where in its channel between the shore and the islands that shut out the view of the north bank, any obstacle was met, the water rose in billows with foaming heads. Maggie knew that she was looking upon the south channel of the great river, and that the main stream lay on the other side of the tree-covered islands, which varied in size from half a mile long to rocks barely large enough to afford foothold to the tree or two whose branches overhung the foaming current. The motion of the rushing water contrasted so finely with the still-life and silence of the forest that framed it, and the many shaped and many colored islands that diversified its surface, that the scene at once soothed the anxious mind of the peasant maid and inspired her with fresh energy.

“Time is passing like that mighty stream,” she thought, “and before another sunset help for Morton may be too late,” and then she asked herself why she, so used to the management of a canoe, should not paddle herself across? She sought out madam and told her what she proposed, was met with energetic protestation, and then was allowed to have her own way. Fortified with directions which she only partially understood, Maggie took her place in the canoe, and waving good-bye to madam and her troop of children, who stood on the landing, pushed out. Unmindful of how the light skiff drifted downwards, she kept its head pointed to the island that lay opposite to her and paddled for dear life. Once she received a shower of spray in passing too near to where the current chafed and fumed over a sunken rock, but she retained her presence of mind, and was glad to see the island draw nearer with each stroke. Just as the gravelly strand seemed within reach, the drift brought her nigh to the end of the island, and she paddled into the channel that lay between it and the islets adjoining, which nestled so closely that the tops of the trees upon them interlaced, furnishing a leafy arcade to the narrow channels that divided them. As Maggie paused for breath after her severe exertion, a sense of the quiet beauty and security of the retreat came over her, and drawing the canoe on to the pebbly beach, she laved her feet while, idly picking from the bushes and vines within reach, she formed a bouquet of colored leaves. She heard the roar of the rapids beneath and she knew that a few yards farther on lay the deep-flowing north channel, but her nature was not one to borrow trouble and she enjoyed the present to the full in her cool retreat. When she again took her place in the canoe, a few dips of the paddle took it outside the islands, and she saw the main channel of the river—smooth except for great greasy circles of slowly whirling water, as if the mighty river, after its late experience of being shredded in the rapids above, had a nightmare of foreboding of a repetition of the same agony in the rapids to which it was hastening. With steady stroke Maggie urged the canoe forward and did not allow the consciousness that she was drifting toward the rapids discompose her. As the canoe neared the bank, the sweep of the current increased, and her arms began to ache with the violent and long-continued exertion. To her joy, she saw a man standing at the landing and the strokes of her paddle quickened. The canoe was swept past the landing, when the man, picking up a coil of rope, ran downwards to a point, and watching his chance, threw it across the canoe. Maggie caught an end of the rope, and in a minute was hauled ashore. The man, a French Canadian employed to assist the bateaux in passing between lakes St Francis and St Louis, expressed his astonishment at a woman daring so perilous a feat, and his wonder increased when she told him of her intention of going to Oka. “Alone! mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “why you will lose your way in the forest which is full of bears and Indians.” She smiled in answer, and receiving his directions, sought the blazed track which led to the Ottawa. Familiar with the bush, she had no difficulty in following the marks, for the litter of falling leaves had begun to shroud the path. The tapping of the woodpecker and the chirrup of the squirrel cheered her, and she pressed on with a light and quick step. Hours passed until the gloom that pervaded the forest told her the sun had ceased to touch the tree-tops and she wished the Ottawa would come in sight. While giving way to a feeling of dread that she might have to halt and, passing the night in the woods, await daylight to show her the way, the faint tinkle of a bell reached her. With expectant smile she paused, and poising herself drank in the grateful sound. “It is the bell of the mission,” she said, and cheerfully resumed her journey. All at once, the lake burst upon her view—a great sweep of glassy water, reflecting the hues of the evening sky, and sleeping at the foot of a long, low hill, covered to its double-topped summit with sombre-foliaged trees. At the foot of the slope of the western end of the hill, she distinguished the mission-buildings and, running above and below them, an irregular string of huts, where she knew the Indians must live, and behind those on the river’s edge rose a singular cliff of yellow sand. The path led her to where the lake narrowed into a river and she perceived a landing-place. Standing at the farthest point, she raised her hand to her mouth and sent a shout across the waters, long, clear, and strong, as she had often done to her father and brothers, while working in the bush, to tell of waiting-meals. In the dusk, she perceived a movement on the opposite bank and the launch of a canoe, which paddled rapidly across. It contained two Indians, whose small eyes and heavy features gave no indication of surprise on seeing who wanted to be ferried. Stepping lightly in, the canoe swiftly skimmed the dark waters, which now failed to catch a gleam from the fading glories of the evening sky. The silence was overwhelming, and as she viewed the wide lake, overshadowed by the melancholy mountain, Maggie experienced a feeling of awe. At that very hour she knew her father would be conducting worship, and as the scene of her loved home passed before her, she felt a fresh impulse of security, and she murmured to herself, “My father is praying for me and I shall trust in the Lord.”

On getting out of the canoe she was perplexed what step to take next. To her enquiries, made in English and imperfect French, the Indians shook their heads, and merely pointed her to the mission-buildings. Approaching the nearest of these, from whose open door streamed the glowing light of a log-fire, she paused at the threshold on seeing a woman kneeling, and who, on hearing her, coolly turned, surveyed her with an inquisitive and deliberate stare, and then calmly resumed her devotions. When the last bead was told, the woman rose and bade her welcome. Maggie told her of her errand. The woman grew curious as to what she could want with an Indian. Yes, she knew Hemlock, but had not seen him; he is a pagan and never comes near the presbytery. The father had gone into the garden to repeat his office and had not returned; she would ask him when he came in. Mademoiselle could have had no supper; mon Dieu, people did not pick up ready-cooked suppers in the woods, but she would hasten and give her of her best. It was a treat to see a white woman, even if she was an Anglais and, she feared, a heretic. The embers on the hearth were urged into a blaze, and before long a platter of pottage, made from Indian corn beaten into a paste, was heated, sprinkled over with maple-sugar and set down with a bowl of curdled-cream on the table. Maggie had finished her repast when the priest entered. He was a lumpish man with protruding underlip, which hung downwards, small eyes, and a half-awakened look. “Ah, good-day,” he said with a vacant stare. Maggie rose and curtsied, while the housekeeper volubly repeated all she had learned of her and her errand. “Hemlock!” he exclaimed, “we must take care. He is a bad Indian and this young woman cannot want him for any good.”

“True; I never thought of that.”

“Ah, we must keep our eyes always open. What can a girl like this want with that bold man?”

“And to run after him through the woods, the infatuate! We must save her.”

“I will have her sent to the sisters, who will save her body and soul from destruction. She would make a beautiful nun.” And the priest rubbed his chubby hands together.

“May it please your reverence,” interposed Maggie, who had caught the drift of their talk, “I seek your aid to find Hemlock. If you will not help me, I shall leave your house.”

The priest gasped for a minute with astonishment. “I thought you were English; you understand French?”

“Enough to take care of myself, and I wish ministers of your robe were taught in college to have better thoughts of us poor women.”

“It is for your good we are instructed; so that we can guard you by our advice.”

“For our good you are taught to think the worst of us! I look for Hemlock that he may go and give evidence that will save a man condemned to die. For the sake of innocency I ask your help.”

The priest shrugged his shoulders, stared at her, gathered up his robe, grasped his missal with one hand and a candle with the other, and saying, “I leave you with Martine,” passed up the open stairway to his bedroom.

“Ah, the holy father!” ejaculated the housekeeper, “when we are sunk in stupid sleep, he is on his knees praying for us all, and the demons dare not come near. Will you not come into the true church? Sister Agatha would teach you. She has had visions in her raptures. Mon Dieu, her knees have corns from kneeling on the stone steps of the altar. You will not. Ah, well, I will ask their prayers for you and the scales may drop from your eyes.”

“Do tell me, how I can find Hemlock?” pleaded Maggie, and the current of her thoughts thus changed, Martine insisted on learning why and how his evidence was needed, and Maggie repeated as much of the story as was necessary. The housekeeper grew interested and said decisively, “the young brave must not die.” Covering her head with a blanket-like shawl, she told Maggie to follow, and stepped out. It was a calm, clear night, the glassy expanse of the lake reflecting the stars. Hurrying onwards, they passed a number of huts, until reaching one, they entered its open door. The interior was dark save for the faint glow that proceeded from the dying embers on the hearth. Maggie saw the forms of several asleep on the floor and seated in silence were three men. “This woman has come to find Hemlock; can you guide her to him?”

“What seeks she with him?”

“She has come from the Chateaugay to tell him his word is wanted to save his best friend from death.”

The conversation went on in the gutturals of the Iroquois for some time, when the housekeeper said to Maggie, “It is all right; they know where Hemlock is, but it would not be safe to go to him now. They will lead you to him at daybreak. Come, we will go back and you will stay with me until morning.”