The Plowshare and the Sword: A Tale of Old Quebec

"Spoken like a Dutchman," said the sailor. "But now to work. I have as little mind as you to die out of season, for my shrift shall be as short as yours if yonder little men pull me down. Scatter the fire, and remove all traces of our camping-place, while I pull at my pipe and think. The soldiers have a hard climb before them yet."

Von Donck screwed the pieces of his wooden pipe together, filled the bowl, and taking a brand from the fire, removed to the edge of the cataract. There he sat, puffing great clouds, his eyes settled upon the ravine, his face stony in thought, while Geoffrey swept the fire into the cataract and obliterated all traces of the recent struggle with the wild cat.

"Bring me my panther hide," called Von Donck, rising with leisurely movements. "We shall win a bloodless victory, and enjoy a laugh to boot. Yonder lies the man to fight for us."

He pointed with the stem of his pipe into the middle of the moon.

Refusing to divulge more of his plan, Von Donck threw the pelt across his shoulder and strode into the bush. Geoffrey followed, and the two men struggled on for upwards of a mile, until the ground went away sharply and the cataract thundered far below through a neck of rock scarcely more than four feet in width. Here Von Donck halted and steadied his body upon the brink.

"If I fail to make this jump, reclaim my body from yonder depths, and say that I fell like a soldier," he jested.

Crossing the chasm, they descended, letting themselves from rock to rock, and running whenever a sheep walk became visible. As they entered the ravine the noise over the hills became more definite.

"How is it they have tracked me?" asked Geoffrey as they ran.

"I have no breath for idle talk," gasped his comrade. "They bring with them an Indian, one of the cursed Algonquins, who shall tell when even a bird has hopped across a stone."

The climb began, up the face of the hills to the region of the moon. The crystal wall was nowhere precipitous. When the summit had been attained, Von Donck flung himself between the mighty lips of the granite face and gasped heavily. Some minutes elapsed before speech returned to him.

"I would as soon carry a man upon my back as this weight of flesh," he growled. "By San Nicolas, I did never so sweat in my life."

"This is open rock, without tree or shelter," said Geoffrey wonderingly. "We could have made a better stand in the bush."

"Hasten yonder," ordered Von Donck. "Bring me as much dry wood as you can bear, and ask no question, or I shall heave you down the face of this cliff, which it has well-nigh killed me to climb."

When Geoffrey returned with a few dry pine sticks, Von Donck was collecting some moist moss from the underpart of the rocks. The moon stood above the granite nose of the colossal face, and by her light the Dutchman drew an imaginary line from the twin projections, which became invested by distance with an exact similitude of the human mouth, to a hole in the rock some twelve yards away. Here he built a fire, placing above the grass and dry sticks a pile of white moss. Then he sat down and well-nigh choked with laughter.

"Prepare to strike a spark," he whispered. "But let no smoke arise if you would escape hanging. The troop shall carry away with them a tale to make these crystal mountains feared for ever."

"What plan is this?" said Geoffrey irritably. "We stand upon the most exposed spot of these mountains, and do you propose to light a fire so that all who are concerned may know where we may be found?"

"Control that voice and temper," whispered Von Donck. "Every sound carries over yon ravine. Come, sit near me, and watch as pretty a piece of art-magic as brain of man ever devised. Show not yourself above the great face, or we are undone, and drop no spark into that fire if you love your life."

Geoffrey crawled along the side of the face and lay flat beside the Dutchman's knee. The latter proceeded:

"The Indians have great fear of these mountains. I promise you yonder Frenchmen are driving their guide at the point of the sword, and feeling none too secure themselves at entering the devil's country. A man who fights a good sword shall sweat when a bird screams o' night. So soon as they show themselves the old man of the mountains shall lift up his voice, and you shall find, boy, that his tongue is mightier than our swords."

When Von Donck had spoken a breath of wind swept the exposed ridge. As it passed a faint groan arose from the rock, and passed, leaving them staring at each other fearfully.

"It was but the wind," Geoffrey muttered.

"San Nicolas!" stammered the Dutchman. "This comes of playing with the powers of darkness. 'Twas the groan of a lost spirit."

"Stay!" whispered Geoffrey. "I thought that the sound proceeded from yonder stone."

His comrade regarded the round mass which had been indicated with starting eyes, but when he saw nothing supernatural, crawled near and examined it nervously, asking:

"Think you some spirit is imprisoned within?"

"See this hole?" exclaimed Geoffrey, pointing to a small aperture visible at the base. "'Tis what they call a blow-stone, if I mistake not. Here the wind enters and so makes the noise that we heard."

"Soft," said Von Donck, vastly relieved. "Soft, or you spoil my plan."

Setting his lips to the hole, Geoffrey sent his breath into the womb of the rock. A subdued murmur beat upon the air and settled the matter beyond dispute. Von Donck rocked himself to and fro, chafing his legs with his podgy hands, scarlet with excitement.

"A hundred thousand devils, but they shall run," he chuckled. "I had purposed to use my own voice, but this is better far."

The sound of other voices came in a murmur across the ravine.

"To the fire," whispered the Dutchman. "Nurse the flame, and let it not burst forth until I give the word."

He scrambled up the side of the rock and looked over the giant's nose. The opposite cliffs were bathed in moonlight, and the watcher saw two men standing above the cataract.

"Now, boy," he muttered deeply. "Let the fire burn, and when the flames dart up choke them with the moss."

Geoffrey complied with the mysterious command; but as he pressed the moss down and a cloud of smoke ascended, a mighty bellowing shook the air, and he started round to behold Von Donck lying flat along the rock, his grotesque face and bulging cheeks pressed against the blow-stone, his body heaving like a gigantic bellows as he pumped his breath into the hole.

"More fire," came a choking whisper. "A strong flame, then smoke as before."

The flames darted up and whipped the moonbeams, the smoke followed, and again the bellowing shocked the night. Then Von Donck scrambled up, and his triumphant voice came down:

"They run! They run!"

The trackers were fleeing wildly from the crystal hills. Had they not seen fire and smoke belched up from the mouth of that terrible face of granite, and heard the giant's awful roars of anger? Headlong they went, mad with terror, leaving their ponies in the bush.

"Here is a brave victory," snorted Von Donck; and he gave vent to his delight by turning a caracole upon the forehead of the giant.

"Now for New Netherlands and Hudson's River!" he chanted, drawing at an imaginary cable as he danced along the great stone face. "'Tis scarce a hundred miles down to the sea. We have but to keep clear of Indians, and all shall be well. Yonder are ponies for us to ride, and, I doubt not, bags of provisions hanging to the saddles. We may laugh at pursuit, boy. The French shall not dare to return. Take now my hands and let me see you make a holiday caper. Higher! San Nicolas, the boy shall make a dancing-master. Ha, Pieter von Donck! Pieter von Donck! 'Tis as cunning an old rogue as ever wore shoe-leather!"

CHAPTER XXV

NOVA ANGLIA

Good fortune and fair weather smiled upon the two travellers during the remainder of their journey, and not another notable adventure befell them before they rode from the forest during the fall of day, and saw the fenced fields of the Lincolnshire farmers stretching before them down the Atlantic slope. Melancholy stumps of trees dotted the prospect as far as the eye could travel; beyond, the thatched or wooden roofs of small houses glowed in the strong light; and from the far distance came the inspiring wash of the sea.

Von Donck reined in his pony and fell from the saddle. "Dost now feel at home?" he cried.

Somewhat sadly Geoffrey shook his head. He was indeed grievously disappointed to find New England so different from the old. He had hoped to see neat hedgerows, compact farms, and sloping meadows, such as he might have looked on in his native county of Berks. He had hoped to see a wain creaking over the fields, to hear the crack of a whip and the carter's cheery song. He saw nothing but poverty, small beginnings, and the signs of a hard struggle for existence. Some men were working in the distance. He could see the quick flash of their axes and hear the solemn blows as steel bit the wood. Between dreary lines of fencing, jagged stubs, patches of corn, showing yellow here and there, springing from every cultivated foot of ground; beyond, some acres of burnt ground, and those cold wooden houses with their enormous chimneys, so altogether unlike the warm brickwork of Old England homes.

"This is not Virginia?" he asked.

"Virginia lies five hundred miles to the south, very far beyond Hudson's River," replied Von Donck. "'Tis a fairer province than this, and better settled, because older. Be not downcast, boy. Here thought is free, and here a man may reap the full reward of his labours. You shall find no tax, nor persecution, nor kingly oppression in this land. Here the people rule for the people; and here you may worship God after your own inclining, and dwell in peace all the days of your life."

"It is a barren land," protested Viner.

"What would you look for in the new world? That island of yours was once a land of forest and swamp. The first man was put into the garden to till it. Labour shall conquer here as elsewhere. Mark you the richness of the soil and the purity of the air. Here you shall fear no pestilence, and if your hands be not afraid to work you shall raise two crops of corn in one season. Gold and silver there are none; but he who owns an ox and has no corn may exchange with him who has corn but wants for meat. In our settlement we use strings of wampum for currency. A shell from the beach becomes gold when it shall buy a man that which he lacks."

The comrades drew back into the forest and waited for evening, because Geoffrey would not advance alone, and Von Donck dared not risk his life among the Puritans, who were at war with the people of New Netherlands. They partook of their last meal together, and when the shadow of night grew heavy upon the fields, Pieter rose and shook himself.

"We have now come to the parting of our ways," he muttered. "You are among your people. We will together cross yonder fields, and then you shall wish me God-speed. The town of Boston lies upon your right hand. I shall beat inland at the base of Connecticut, until I reach the bank of Hudson's River, and there I am upon my own territory where no man shall lead me. I shall ride beside the river until I come to the little city of the Manhattoes, where William Kieft rules. San Nicolas! How old Will the Testy shall stare and blow at his pipe when he sees Pieter von Donck on the steps of his bowerie!"

They set out upon the last stage along a trail between the whispering corn. Von Donck had grown suddenly silent. He plucked at the panther skin, snorting occasionally, and casting side glances at his companion, who rode close to his side, intent upon the prospect of low houses and broken bush. When Geoffrey at length leaned over with a warning to point out the figure of a man, who was proceeding down a side path with a dog at his heels, the old Dutchman replied by touching the shoulder nearest him and saying:

"Dost feel the smart of that wound yet?"

"It is nothing," Geoffrey answered. "See you not that man advancing?"

"The marks shall remain," went on Pieter solemnly. "The scar will be there to remind you of a good friend in New Amsterdam. My lad, I shall seek to hear of you. Each time I look on this skin I shall breathe a wish for the happiness of the boy who saved my life in the crystal hills. When you come to make your home in Virginia, send to Pieter von Donck at the hostel by San Nicolas, and if he be alive, and not grown too fat to walk, he will come out to meet you. Will not forget the old rogue who tricked the French?"

Geoffrey put out his hand and grasped the podgy fingers. "May I meet a traitor's end if I forget my friend," he answered. "Had it not been for you my dry body would now be swinging in the wind of the mountains. I wish you well, Pieter; I shall ever wish you well. Now ride! You would not have me fight for you against my own people."

"There is no English blood in him," snorted Von Donck. "A Dutchman, I say, a Dutchman to the ends of his hair."

The dog was bounding towards the travellers, and the farmer put up his hand and hailed them.

"We are Englishmen," Geoffrey called back.

"Now, by the sack of San Nicolas, out upon you," shouted Von Donck. "I am no Englishman. I am a Hollander, fellow, Hollander from head to heel."

"Ride!" exclaimed Geoffrey, smiting his comrade's mount. "God be with you, Pieter."

"And you, boy."

Von Donck lashed his pony and the nimble animal bounded off to the west, while Geoffrey dismounted, and, holding the savage dog at bay with his sword, advanced to meet the owner of the land.

"Do not fear, friend," he said, as they drew together. "I am no spy, but an Englishman from the north. He who rides yonder is a friendly Dutchman who has accompanied me upon the way. I pray you tell me is my Lord Baltimore within the town?"

The settler, a tall man in a quaker hat and black cloak, which fell from his neck almost to the ground, regarded the speaker with cold, unfavouring eyes.

"You know little of this country, young sir, if you believe that Lord Baltimore governs here," he replied at length. "You stand within the province of Massachusetts beside the town of Boston, and the lord you seek rules over the province of Maryland and that country to the west of the bay of Chesapeake."

Geoffrey's heart sank at this chill reception, and he lowered his eyes despondently before the stern gaze of the Puritan as he answered:

"I come to pray for a ship and men to be sent against the French, who hold the north. He who sent me, charging me to deliver this ring in his name to Lord Baltimore, believes that his countrymen and mine will not fail to help us in the time of need."

"Put not your trust in Massachusetts," said the listener dourly. "We have much ado to defend ourselves against the Mohicans and the pinch of famine. We know not ourselves where to turn for aid, and your cry is ours also. You have reached the valley of dry bones, young stranger."

"The dry bones stood up in an exceeding great army," returned Geoffrey boldly.

"Even so. If it be God's will, we also shall stand up. What is the name of him who sent you?"

"Sir Thomas Iden."

"Of county Kent?"

"The same."

"I have heard of that family as most loyal to the Crown. Arms, a chevron between three close helmets, if my memory mistake not. I also am from the south, driven out, like many a better man, by the hand of persecution. Come now! I will lead you to the house of John Winthrop, our governor."

The town of Boston was then a mere village of distressful huts crowded within a great palisade; the single street, which led to a quay of closely-packed logs covered by stones with earth atop, was rough ground over which the tyreless wheels of primitive carts jolted woefully. The candle-light from a few windows shed a dreary gleam across the way, where men closely muffled drifted along with a stern "Good-e'en." There was neither laughter nor tavern-singing nor play-acting in that cheerless town, no throwing of dice nor rattle of cups. The Puritan mind was dominant; and the only sound of music that disturbed the unhappy silence was the lugubrious droning of a psalm or sad-toned hymn.

A lamp flickered near the entry, and beside the watchman, who kept the light burning at the gate, stretched a board; and upon the board appeared in short black letters the notice: —

"No person within this province, professing to believe in Jesus Christ, shall be in any ways troubled, molested, or discountenanced for his or her religion, or in the free exercise thereof."

"See!" said the guide, without a smile. "Here we have liberty!"

At the entrance to a low house near the end of the street they stopped, and the guide knocked. After a long interval a shutter was pushed back and a voice demanded to know who it was that knocked.

"A stranger from the north to see the governor," said the guide.

The voice grumbled and lessened gradually, still grumbling, until it sounded more loudly and the door opened. An old man stood on the threshold, a lighted candle in his hand, the thick grease running upon his fingers. He looked from one to the other, and cried in a shrill voice: "The governor is with his reverence. The stranger must wait."

"I am content to wait," said Geoffrey.

Hearing a sound, he looked back, and saw the man who had brought him so far already receding in the gloom of the street. The porter bade him enter, and when he had done so provided him with a seat, and there left him for a good hour, at the end of which time he reappeared in darkness and said shortly: "Come!"

The room into which Geoffrey was ushered contained all the marks of extreme poverty. The light came from one great log glowing in the big fireplace, for the night was chill with the breath of the sea and a sharp north wind. Two figures occupied this comfortless room, one on either side of the fire, the older man attired in the simple gown and bands of a minister of religion; the other, dark, with luminous eyes and white forehead, leaned forward, the long fingers of his right hand trifling with his wig. Both were well-known in their generation. The layman was John Winthrop; the minister Roger Williams.

"You are welcome to Boston, sir," said Winthrop, without rising, but merely lifting his head in the firelight to scan the face of the visitor. "Come you to our town by chance?"

"I come from the far north to seek aid," said Geoffrey, with a boyish pride which caused Williams to frown.

"Terra incognita indeed," he murmured. "A cold land where Popery is rampant. How great is the distance, and how came you thence?"

Geoffrey told his story and delivered his message. The two men watched him intently, Winthrop always playing with his wig, Williams leaning out with hands clasped over a massive Bible held upon his knee. When Geoffrey had finished his tale, there was a moment of silence, broken only by the spitting of the fire. Then the Puritans looked across the hearth and smiled.

"The poor man is the helper of the poor," murmured Williams.

John Winthrop laughed bitterly.

"When a poor man begs of me he has my all, and that I give to our poor brethren in the north. They have my prayers. Young man," he went on, rising and confronting the messenger, "you have nobly performed a noble duty; but in coming to us you confront poverty indeed. Here night and day we struggle for existence. I myself have gone to rest, knowing not how to face the morrow. We have our wives and little ones to feed and protect, and these are our first charge. Daily the cry goes out to us: 'We want.' Nightly we dread to hear the shout of 'Mohican invasion.' We fight, not for fame nor for honour among nations, but for a foothold upon this continent, where we are striving to plant a home for the free, to the glory of God, and the shame of England who has cast us out. Young man, you have done your duty."

"And your help shall come from Heaven," murmured the divine deeply.

"I shall proceed to Lord Baltimore. To him I was sent," said Geoffrey.

"Go to him if you will, but the answer you shall there receive will be that you have heard already," said Winthrop. "Virginia is in sore straits, being unable to convey her tobacco crop to the Old World, since there are no English ships to cross the seas."

"Nevertheless I shall go," said Geoffrey.

John Winthrop bowed his head. "You shall sleep under my roof this night and accept what poor hospitality I have to offer. My friend and servant shall minister to your needs."

He made a slight movement of his hand to signify that the interview was ended, and the messenger retired, sorely depressed at the manner of his reception. The old man who had opened the door gave him food and drink, asking no question and imparting no information; but continually droning through his nose a hymn, or muttering in gloomy tones some sad portion of the Scriptures. He was one of the most zealous of Winthrop's company, all of whom were Nonconformists, but not separatists. Indeed, they esteemed it an honour to call themselves members of the English Church, and openly admitted that they had emigrated in order that they might be divided from her corruptions, but not from herself. For all his devotion, the old servant was not a cheerful companion for a man who was already cast down in mind, and Geoffrey was glad to be rid of him and alone in a cold, bare room, which was as sad in all its details as the men who occupied the town.

It was long before sleep came to the traveller. He had become so accustomed to the open air that the atmosphere of his room stifled him. When at last he succeeded in finding unconsciousness the boom of the sea shook the house and occupied his brain.

Morning came, and with it a heavy tramp of feet. A rough hand struck the door, and the sleeper awakened with a start, to behold at his side three men, cloaked and stern, the foremost holding a scrap of paper, to which was affixed a red official seal.

"Sir stranger, surrender yourself," he said.

"What means this?" exclaimed Geoffrey. "I am an Englishman in a colony of the English."

"The charge against you is that of treason," replied the stern Puritan.

"Treason!" repeated the young man; and rose dumbfounded.

"It is suspected that you are a spy, in the employ of our enemies the Dutch."

CHAPTER XXVI

STIGMA

Thus Geoffrey became a prisoner among his own people, owing to the friendliness of Von Donck, the honest Dutchman having failed to reckon with the intense suspicion of the Puritan mind. When the manner of his guest's arrival had been explained to John Winthrop, that pious governor raised his eyebrows in astonishment, and did not hesitate to give instructions for the new-comer to be held in close confinement, pending an inquiry into the movements of the Dutch. While this investigation was being pursued, justly and in good order as the governor directed, or, in other words, with extreme slowness, many notable events occurred in the disordered country of the north.

The St. Wenceslas had slipped from her moorings and drifted down the St. Lawrence, bearing La Salle towards Acadie, and certain despatches which were destined for the chief minister of France. Unwillingly Roussilac had been compelled to record the services rendered to Church and State by the proud departing priest.

"You have well served yourself, Sir Commandant," La Salle had said, after insisting upon his right to peruse the detailed history of the Iroquois defeat, which contained no word of reference to the assistance rendered by the Algonquins. "And now, by Heaven, you shall serve me." And Roussilac, for all his ill will, was not strong enough to dare resist the priest.

There yet remained in that district the Kentish knight, old Penfold, and the Puritan; and when the man of Kent came to learn of La Salle's departure, he left his solitary cave, and buckled on his sword, and returned to action, though the dream of his life had vanished. His younger brother, the fool of the family, who from boyhood had spent his days in idleness, trolling for pike or chasing with his dogs, would continue to occupy the old mansion which the elder had abandoned, and leave it, as he had been empowered to do failing news from the New World, to his son, when the days of fishing and the chase should be accomplished.

The knight came to his home beside the lost waters, and his wife, who had visited him each day with food in the lonely cave, received him with her proud silence and stood to hear his will. She it was who had told him of the sailing of the ship and the going of La Salle.