The Plowshare and the Sword: A Tale of Old Quebec

"Oskelano comes upon us at the head of the tribes of the Algonquins," spoke the messenger. "They carry the fire-tubes given them by the French."

The sachems sat like figures of stone.

"Which way do they come?" demanded Piscotasin, surnamed Son of the Weasel, the learned chief of the Oneidas.

"From the north."

"They shall find us ready."

The messenger passed back. Straightway the forest shivered with a wild cry for battle until the leaves were shed like rain.

There came another runner.

"A fire-float passes down the Father of Waters."

"It is well," said the Son of the Weasel. "It is the signal of the friendly Dutch."

Thereupon commenced that great advance of the confederate tribes which descendants speak of to this day. The flower and strength of the Iroquois, that great people which from time immemorial had ruled the north-eastern land from the coast to the chain of inland seas, went out to avenge their wrongs. The women rushed to find shelter from their hereditary enemies the pitiless Algonquins. The army poured away in a roaring torrent, draining the forest, leaving the fires licking the sharp breeze with forked tongues, leaving only one man behind:

Old Shuswap, doubled in the dust.

CHAPTER XIX

ENKINDLED

The raft of fire, which had been reported to the sachems as visible upon the river, had indeed been ignited and started upon its course by the hands of the Dutch, but without any idea of signalling to their allies. The man who was chiefly instrumental in giving the signal, which Van Vuren had arranged for in the time of his power, had never heard of that secret conspiracy which the action of the English venturers had brought to nought.

Because the captain shrank from introducing his party into a camp friendly only in name, where friction between his men and those of Roussilac might have occurred, the Dutchmen bivouacked upon the outskirts of the forest, and while darkness surrounded them sat smoking solemnly and chatting, altogether ignorant of the contemplated native rising. These men were of all ages and drawn from almost every station in life. The most prominent character was one Pieter von Donck, an elderly sailor of immense bulk, attired in the shapeless sack-coat, white tucker, and immense knee-breeches of the period. This man, so report went, had touched at every known harbour in the world, had explored many an unknown tract of country, and was as well acquainted with the streets of New Amsterdam, its double-roofed church, its battery upon the hill, its toylike windmills, and its gallows beside the wharf, as with the old-world town of Holland on the arm of the Zuyder Zee. He had been sent out with Dutoit to act as guide for the expedition, and it was well for the lieutenant that old Pieter had been with him, otherwise the entire party must have been lost. Von Donck was very nearly as skilful as an Indian in picking up a trail, and to his more unenlightened comrades his knowledge of locality savoured of witchcraft. Van Vuren and his lieutenant were conversing at a little distance from the big circle, the former frequently consulting a scrap of vellum covered with names and lines, the first map of the great eastern coast which had ever been designed.

"Yonder is a mighty precipice," observed presently one of the youngest of the soldiers, nodding his head gravely in the direction of the heights. "How the folk at home would marvel, could they but see what we look upon daily in this land."

"What say you, boy? What say you?" cried Von Donck, aroused from his musings by this criticism. "What! call you yonder hill a precipice? How would you name the cliffs of Jersey, had you seen them as I, Pieter von Donck, saw them from the ship Goede Vrouw? Should you but cross the expanse of Tapaan Bay, as I have done, should you enter the defiles of the Highlands and see the wigwams of the Iroquois perched among the cliffs like nests of eagles, should you see the black thunder-clouds chasing the hobgoblins among the Kaatskills, as I, Pieter von Donck, have seen them, then methinks, boy, you might sit among old travellers and talk to them the night."

The old sailor's voice was thick, and he snorted like an ox between his words.

"'Tis given to few to venture as you have done," spoke a conciliatory voice from the circle. "Tell us now somewhat of your journey up Hudson's River, good Piet."

"A weird river, they tell me," said another voice.

"True! true!" snorted the voyageur. "A river of ghosts and devils. A river which changes the flow of its tide 'gainst all nature. A river which shoals or deepens in an hour, to hold the explorer back, or to lure him into the heart of a storm. 'Tis a river which few dare to tempt. But I, Pieter von Donck, went up it under a master who, despite his English blood, was the bravest man upon this earth. Ay, but I saw even his cheek whiten, when we reached the whirlpools at the end of the known world, and yet saw no sea ahead."

"Who was that master?" asked the young man who had opened the conversation.

A derisive laugh sounded, followed by Von Donck's booming reproach:

"Young man, have you no pride in the doings of the great? Hast never heard the name of Hendrick Hudson?"

"I knew not that you had been with him," muttered the youth.

"Before Marie von Toit, your mother, was weaned I crossed the seas," snorted the old man, smiling into the fire. "What Dutchman has not heard of the ship which brought me over, the Goede Vrouw, which lies as I speak a-rotting within the wooden harbour of New Amsterdam? San Nicolas was her figure-head, the good saint who guided us through all perils, and to whom upon landing we erected a chapel within sight of the sea. He is the patron of our first settlement in this new world, and shall remain so for ever. Now they call him Santa Claus, and the children of New Amsterdam hang up each one a stocking in the chimney-side on San Nicolas' Eve, for the good saint is a lover of children, and rides that night over the houses, his wide breeches filled with gifts, which he lets fall down the chimneys and so into the stockings hung to receive them. All the city is a-laughing with children on the morn of San Nicholas' Day."

"Gives he then nothing to the elder folk?" asked one.

"'Twas once his custom to do so, when he could find an industrious body who spoke no evil of his neighbour," said Von Donck. "But he has much ado to find such now."

"Didst ever see the storm ship upon Hudson's River?" a listener demanded.

The old sailor pulled himself round to face the speaker.

"What story is this?" he muttered.

"There is a ship which haunts that river and comes a-sailing by night or day, running 'gainst both wind and tide, her deck crowded with Dutchmen who neither move nor speak. She comes before a storm, and goes while men gaze, like a flash of light."

Pieter von Donck grinned.

"Will call me a phantom, brave boys? Here you shall find enough sound flesh to make two men as good as any," he said, slapping his mighty thighs. "That ship is surely none other than the Half Moon herself. Know you not that Hudson and his crew haunt the Kaatskills? O' nights the good ship, which lies sunken at the end of the world, rises, and the ghosts of my master and my mates pass from the phantom deck to their revels within the mountains, and back ere morning to their graves. Peace be to them, brave fellows all!

"Twenty-nine years past," Von Donck went on, in his strident voice, which brought Van Vuren near to listen, "we cast away from our new city on the island, and sailed westward to discover the overland passage to China. In a day we had left the land of the Manhattoes far astern, and with a favouring breeze had run under the palisadoes, a wall of rock, young friend, which makes yonder height seem to my eye no greater than an ant-mound. The solitude unmanned all, save Hudson, who walked the deck, swearing that he would reach the sea if he had to explore till Judgment Day. Awful was that silence when our ship entered the shadow of the Highlands, where the falling of a rope upon deck broke into echoes among the hills, and over the river came a noise as of demons laughing. The terror of the New World was upon us, and when we sang our chanties, heaving the lead or drawing in sail, we would fain have stopped our ears, so terrible were the voices which answered us from the shore."

"Was there no talk of turning back?"

"There was no turning back with Hendrick Hudson. He strode the deck day and night, and at his every order the black rocks pealed and the precipices shrieked, though the weather would be calm and the wind not more than a whisper. We held on our course until a storm seized and flung us upon the shore; and there we made landing, in a place where snakes darted their heads at us, and having built us a fire under the basswoods, cooked food and dried our clothes.

"'This mountain country is the place for me,' cried Hudson. 'Here might we spend a free life, my sailors, hunting by day, and at sport by night. Bring out our pipes and liquor from the ship, and in this hollow let us rest until the storm clouds pass.'

"So we remained there three days, chasing bears by light, spending the dark hours around the fire, smoking our long pipes, and playing at bowls, the favourite game of our master; and the mountains thundered, and the goblin voices shrieked with every gust of wind. A fearsome place, that dripping rock-forest at the end of the world. Upon the third night came Indians to our camp, two sachems old and cunning, who demanded by what right we had brought ourselves into their land. I can see the face of Hudson now, with its straight black beard and hard black eyes, and the angry twitch of his mouth, a trick of his when crossed, as he answered them. 'We are Dutch,' quoth he. 'And if there be any new passage across this world Dutchmen shall find it.' Then the sachems came down from the rocks, and cursed him and his crew, swearing to call up spirits of river and wind which should fight against our ship. Hudson threatened them with the sword – there was methinks too much hot English blood in our captain – and the next day we remanned the Half Moon, and sailed away against the stream.

"A wind struck us, and the horse-shoe which had been nailed to the mast before starting dropped with a fearful clanging upon deck. We sang the hymn to San Nicolas, and fastened the horse-shoe anew, but again it fell. The Indian spirits were making mischief in the wind. The day became dark; the sun went out; but Hudson bade us cram on sail, because every hour he looked to hear the roar of the sea. 'And then for China, my men,' cried he.

"We ran into whirlpools and cross currents, and the Half Moon struck full upon a rock in the middle of the stream. The water roared around, and I swam for my life through darkness, seeing no man, dreading every instant lest a hand should seize my heel and drag me down. I reached the shore, and there found a companion, who had saved himself as I had done. Of our ship and mates we could find no trace, therefore we set out together, and made a great journey overland, until by the grace of God we saw the tower of the church of San Nicolas lit by the morning sun, and the good folk of New Amsterdam coming out to greet us as men brought back from the dead."

Von Donck drew a flaming stick from the fire and relighted his rolled tobacco leaf. A circle of solemn faces was set towards him.

"The Half Moon yet sails upon Hudson's River," remarked the sailor who had questioned the voyageur concerning the storm ship. "She rides out of a thunder-cloud, her sails flying against the wind, the men staring over her side. One Sunday in the morn, when the folk were at church and the dominie was preaching – such is the tale I have heard – there sounded a mighty wind, and the building grew creeping dark. Upon that a man ran in, crying, 'A ship! A Dutch ship sailing by!' The dominie and all ran into the gloom of mid-day and saw a vessel riding against the tide, full of men in wide breeches and sugar-loaf hats, with faces as white as wool. Some of the bolder youths manned a boat, and rowed out signalling, but the stranger gave them no heed. Sometimes she would appear so nigh to them that they could mark the flakes rotting from her beams and the weeds trailing round her bows, and the same minute she would appear as though half a mile away. And while they still rowed after her, they heard a noise as of iron ringing upon her deck and straightway she rode into a cloud and vanished. And afterwards came a great storm which wrecked close upon a score of houses."

"The old ship," muttered Von Donck, his eyes astray, his cheeks less ruddy than their wont. "'Twas the sound of the horse-shoe falling to deck which the rowers heard. Hudson swore in the face of Heaven that he would make that passage. Mayhap he still strives, the storm holding him back from the unknown north-west for ever."

As the old sailor ceased to speak Van Vuren advanced, the strip of vellum between his fingers, and stood a sharp figure in the firelight. The men ceased their mutterings and leaned forward to hear what their leader had to say.

"Our expedition upon this land has failed, my men," he cried. "Our ship lies burnt, our comrades are lost, we are not strong enough to withstand the French. Shall we now make a journey through the unknown land, and so down to our own free colony, through which pours Hudson's river, of which I have heard you speak? Let us strive together to gain the island of the Manhattoes, where our city of New Amsterdam smiles upon the sea."

The Dutchmen did not break into a shout as Englishmen might have done, nor did they raise a noisy chatter after the manner of the French. They looked on one another with grave faces, and each man puffed his smoke more heavily. Finally old Pieter von Donck snorted and spoke:

"I have played the pioneer before to-day, captain. 'Twould gladden my eyes to see again the tower of San Nicolas by the sea."

"Then let us away before morning," said Van Vuren.

Boats of the fishermen were drawn along the white road of shore, and these the Dutchmen requisitioned for crossing. They worked warily, fearful of seeing the flash of torches along the path beneath the cliff. The river brimmed and the stream flung down with a ceaseless undertone.

"What have we here?" snorted Von Donck, while he groped under the gloomy wall.

A number of dry logs, crossed and pinned together by wooden wedges, lay upon the gravel spit, piled with dry grass and resinous boughs interlaced. Beside were lengths of pine to act as rollers for launching. The mass of inflammable material rose high. Torches were pressed between two stones beside the logs.

"'Tis but the raft made to give signal to the Iroquois tribes," explained the lieutenant.

"To the water with it," cried a voice.

"Peace, fool. The French have sentries posted."

"Fire it," snorted Von Donck. "Let not so much good work be spent in vain. Will float it upon the French man-o'-war for a parting message."

Eager hands set in place the rollers, and soon the unwieldy mass grumbled riverwards. It nosed into the water and settled with a splash, riding deep because the logs had weight. Flint and steel struck, a shower of sparks rained upon the catch-fire, the torches were ignited. At a word the grass flared, and the raft, released, struck upon a rock, turned slowly, and raced down stream, a red and yellow sheet of fire under a whirling canopy of smoke, straight for the lantern which marked the presence of the man-of-war.

"To the boats!" whispered Van Vuren.

A cry was raised above, and soon the answering voices resembled a chorus of daws frightened round a dark steeple by the shadow of a bird of prey. While the Dutch were floundering in mid-stream a brass gun thundered. The column of fire swept on, illuminating the seamed wall, and throwing into black contrast the trees on the opposite shore.

As the laughing Dutchmen reached land a terrific din from the hemlock forest shocked the night, and this wild revelry became each moment more terrible, until the wind seemed to cease to breathe.

The raft was opposite the landing-stage, burning rapidly down to the water, casting out flakes of fire and wisps of blazing grass. Lights flashed confusedly upon the heights, and the tramp of armed men carried solemnly across the river.

"The Iroquois are coming out!" cried Van Vuren.

"Let us wait like vultures for the pickings," muttered the lieutenant at his side.

"Vultures!" shrieked a malignant voice. "A good word, traitors."

The men swung round and stared into the gloom. Upon a point of rock they saw Gaudriole, squatting like a toad, his features half lit by the glow of his pipe.

"The plain of Tophet lies ahead," he snarled at them. "Others may play at fire as well as ye."

He sprang up and danced furiously upon the rock.

"Slay me that hunchback," shouted Van Vuren in a rage.

His men ran at the rock. Gaudriole spat at them like a cat and vanished among the scrub.

A wave of smoke fanned over the ridge. A deep glow, waving up and down like a red rag, grew along the southern sky, advancing storm-like, deepening in colour.

The bush had been fired.

CHAPTER XX

SACRAMENTAL

The military routine of the fortress continued that day as usual, and the approach of night brought no suspicion of the forthcoming assault. The absence of La Salle was alone commented upon, yet without apprehension, for the priest was notoriously lax in the performance of his ecclesiastical duties, and only Laroche was seriously troubled in mind for his brother priest. Roussilac indeed breathed more freely when La Salle was not present in the fortress. At eventide two little bells rang out, that to the east of the citadel being the bell of the chapel of Ste. Anne, presided over by the junior priest, St Agapit, that to the west the bell of Ste. Mary Bonsecours upon the hill. Here Laroche, in the absence of La Salle, officiated to recite vespers and hear confessions.

Laroche, though a fighting bully lacking in every priestly quality, was, among the soldiers at least, more popular than St Agapit. The latter was a scholar, a man too learned, and somewhat too honest, for his age, an ascetic, and a priest in every sense. It was well known that he looked with a stern eye upon drunken brawls or vengeful threats, whereas Laroche, himself a brawler when in his cups, judged such offences leniently. St Agapit had no ambition, apart from the faithful performance of his duty, the carrying out of which rarely brought him into even remote contact with either of his colleagues.

It was good to feel the cool breath of the evening after the heat and burden of the afternoon. The little stone church of Ste. Mary upon the brow of the hill darkened, and an aged crone passed into the sanctuary to light the strong-smelling lamps. Laroche entered to recite vespers, and rolled away to divest his great body of cope and alb; but as he appeared again within the church his eyes fell upon some half-dozen men, who waited to obtain an easier conscience by confession of their sins.

"A plague on ye," the priest grumbled as he stumbled into his box. "Why are ye all such miserable sinners? Ha! is it you that I see, Michel Ferraud? What sin now, you rogue?"

The keeper of the cabaret in the Rue des Pêcheurs fell straightway upon his knees, and began to whimper:

"The former wickedness. I am driven to the act, my father. Wine is scarce, as your holiness knows, and great is the demand therefor. I must eke out the supply against the coming of each ship, and it has ever been but a little aqua puralis added to each keg; but to-day, father, the devil jogged my elbow, and that which is blended cannot be separated. The wine remains a rich colour, holy father, as you shall see, and none shall know – "

"Vile and shameless sinner that you are," the priest interrupted. "To dilute a wine which is already too thin to gladden the heart of man and make him a cheerful countenance – to do so, I say, is to commit a most deadly sin."

"Exact not so heavy a fine as at last confession, good father. Would not have me close my tavern? The wine is a good wine," Michel added professionally, "and the little water added is methinks an aid to virtue."

"Art so fond of water?" replied the confessor grimly. "Water you shall have. Go down now to the river, swim across, and return in like manner, and afterwards come to me again. Go now! I have lesser sinners to absolve."

"The river will be villainous cold, my father. And I cannot swim."

"Learn," said the inexorable priest. "Come not to me again till you have crossed the river as I have said. May you take into your evil stomach an abundance of cold water while learning."

The taverner retired dissatisfied, and when outside the church rubbed his head and ruminated. "The confession was ill-timed," he muttered. "His reverence is in an evil humour. The devil shall seize me body and soul before I set one foot into that accursed river. But there is Father St Agapit. I will go forthwith and confess to him."

The taverner's propitious star was in the ascendant. When he reached the chapel of Ste. Anne vespers had not concluded, for the office was there recited with greater reverence and detail than in the church of Ste. Mary Bonsecours. Michel pushed himself into a front place and hastened to make himself conspicuous by various fussy acts of outward devotion. The office over, he lingered until St Agapit came to him, and the taverner then repeated the confession which he had already made, with such disastrous consequences, to Laroche.

"Since the evil nature of man drives him to drink much wine, let him partake of it as weak as may be, for his soul's health," said the sincere priest. "But, my son, it behoves you to make known to your patrons the truth."

"I dare not," said Michel, rejoicing at heart because he saw a prospect of cheating the devil.

"Then are you guilty of deceit," said the priest. "Mix water with your wine no more, and for your deceit you shall say the litany of St. Anthony of Padua six times before the altar of Ste. Anne. But see that you wash before approaching the holy shrine, because I perceive upon you the odour of wine-casks."

Having brought his duty to an end, St Agapit drew his cloak round him and went out. While studying that day the work of a German philosopher he had been confronted by the startling theory that the brain and stomach of the human system were possibly connected by means of nerves. He desired to procure from one of the settler-soldiers a dead rabbit which he might dissect for his own enlightenment.

As he went a woman met him.

"Father," she cried, "a soldier lies at my house at the point of death, praying for a priest to confess him."

"Follow me to the church," said St Agapit.

He passed back into the little log-building, took the reserved Host and the sacred oils from an inlaid case, and wrapping these consolations of the Church in his cloak accompanied the woman.

Upon a palliasse in one of the cabins on the eastern slope a young man lay dying of pneumonia, that fell disease which the medical science of the day could only fight by sage shakings of the head and a judicious use of the cupping-glass. The commandant's own doctor stood there, a man with some knowledge of medicinal plants and skilled by long experience in the treatment of sword-cuts, helplessly watching the exodus of his patient.

"I resign him to your charge, good father," he said, bending his back to the priest. "He has passed beyond the help of science. Had I been summoned earlier" – he shrugged his shoulders – "a discreet use of the lance might well have relieved the fatal rush of blood to the brain and saved a life for the king."

"Perchance an incision in the stomach to release the foul vapours – " began St Agapit.

"Useless, my father. The disease, I do assure you, is in the blood."

The abbé knelt and administered the last sacraments of his Church. The young soldier remained entirely conscious and his confession came in a steady whisper.

"Father," he concluded, "I would speak with the commandant."

St Agapit looked at the physician by the flickering light of a pine torch. The latter shook his head.

"'Tis impossible. Roussilac is at supper. But I may leave a message as I pass."

"Say that Jean-Marie Labroquerie calls on him with his dying breath," whispered the soldier.