Cameron of Lochiel

Just as they were raising the glasses to their lips a terrific report was heard. It was like a stupendous clap of thunder, or as if some huge body had fallen upon the manor house, which shook to its very foundations. Every one rushed out of doors. The sun was shining with all the brilliance of a perfect day in July. They scaled the roof, but there was no sign anywhere that the house had been struck. Every one was stupefied with awe, the seigneur himself appearing particularly impressed. "Can it be," he exclaimed, "that this phenomenon presages the fall of my house!"

In vain did M. d'Egmont, the priest, and Uncle Raoul endeavor to refer the phenomenon to ordinary causes; they could not remove the painful impression it had left. The glasses were left unemptied in the dining-room, and the little company passed into the drawing-room to take their coffee.

What took place afterward only confirmed the D'Haberville family in their superstitious fears. Who knows, after all, whether such omens, to which the ancient world lent implicit belief, may not indeed be warnings from heaven when some great evil threatens us? If, indeed, we must reject all that our feeble reason comprehends not, we should speedily become Pyrrhonists, utter skeptics, like Molière's Marphorius. Who knows? But one might write a whole chapter on this "who knows."

The weather, which had been so fine all day, began to cloud up toward six o'clock in the evening. By seven the rain fell in torrents; the thunder seemed to shatter the vault of heaven, and a great mass of rock, struck by a thunder-bolt, fell from the bluff with terrific noise and obliterated the highway.

Captain D'Haberville, who had carried on an immense deal of forest warfare along with his Indian allies, had become tinctured with many of their superstitions; and when the disasters of 1759 fell upon him, he was convinced that they had been foretold to him two years before.

Jules, seated at supper between his mother and sister and holding their hands in his, shared in their depression. In order to turn their thoughts into another channel, he asked his mother to tell one of those stories with which she used to amuse his childhood.

"It would give me," said he, "yet another memory of the tenderest of mothers to take with me to Europe."

"I can refuse my boy nothing," said Madame D'Haberville; and she began the following story:

"A mother had an only child, a little girl, fair as a lily, whose great blue eyes wandered from her mother to heaven and back from heaven to her mother, only to fix themselves on heaven at last. How proud and happy was this loving mother when every one praised the beauty of her child! Her cheeks like the rose just blown, her tresses fair and soft as the beaten flax and falling over her shoulders in gracious waves! Immeasurably happy was this good mother.

"At last she lost the child she idolized; and, like Rachel, she would not be comforted. She passed her days in the cemetery embracing the little grave. Mad with grief, she kept calling to the child with ceaseless pleadings:

"'My darling! my darling! listen to your mother, who is come to carry you to your own bed, where you shall sleep so warmly! Oh, how cold you must be under the wet sod!'

"She kept her ear close to the earth, as if she expected a response. She trembled at every slightest noise, and sobbed to discover that it was but the murmur of the weeping willow moved by the breeze. The passers-by used to say: 'This grass, so incessantly watered by her weeping, should be always green; but her tears are so bitter that they wither it, even like the fierce sun of midday after a heavy shower.'

"She wept beside a brook where the little one had been accustomed to play with pebbles, and in whose pure stream she had so often washed the little feet. The passers-by used to say:

"'This mother sheds so many tears that she swells the current of the stream!'

"She nursed her grief in every room wherein the little one had played. She opened the trunk in which she kept religiously all the child's belongings – its clothes, its playthings, the little gold-lined cup of silver from which she had last given it to drink. Passionately she kissed the little shoes, and her sobs would have melted a heart of steel.

"She went continually to the village church to pray, to implore God to work one miracle in her behalf, and give her back her child. And the voice of God seemed to answer her:

"'Like David you shall go to her, but she shall not return to you.'

"Then she would cry:

"'When, Lord, when shall such joy be mine?'

"She threw herself down before the image of the blessed Virgin, our Lady of Sorrows; and it seemed to her that the eyes of the Madonna rested upon her sadly, and that she read in them these words:

"'Endure with patience, even as I have done, O daughter of Eve, till the day when your mourning shall be turned into gladness.'

"And the unhappy mother cried anew:

"'But when, when will that blessed day come, O Mother of God?'

"One day the wretched mother, having prayed with more than her usual fervor, having shed, if possible, more tears than was her wont, fell asleep in the church, exhausted with her grief. The sexton shut the doors without noticing her. It must have been about midnight when she awoke. A ray of moonlight illuminating the altar revealed to her that she was yet in the church. Far from being terrified, she rather rejoiced at her situation, if such a thing as joy could be said to find any place in her sad heart.

"'Now,' said she, 'I can pray alone with God, alone with the Blessed Virgin, alone with myself!'

"Just as she was going to kneel down a low sound made her raise her head.

"She saw an old man, who, entering by one of the side doors of the sacristy, made his way to the altar with a lighted taper in his hand. She saw with astonishment that it was the former sexton, dead twenty years before. She felt no fear at the sight, for every sentiment of her breast had been swallowed up in grief. The specter climbed the altar steps, lighted the candles, and made the customary preparations for the celebration of a requiem mass. When he turned she saw that his eyes were fixed and expressionless, like those of a statue. He re-entered the sacristy, but reappeared almost at once, followed this time by a venerable priest bearing a chalice and clothed in full vestments. His great eyes, wide open, were filled with sadness; his movements were like those of an automaton. She recognized the old priest, twenty years dead, who had baptized her and given her her first communion. Far from being terrified by this marvel, the poor mother, wrapped up in her sorrow, concluded that her old friend had been touched by her despair, and had broken the bonds of the sepulchre for her sake.

"All was somber, grim, and silent in this mass thus celebrated and ministered by the dead. The candles cast a feeble light like that of a dying lamp. At the moment when the bell of the 'Sanctus,' striking with a dull sound, as when a bone is broken by the grave-digger in some old cemetery, announced the descent of Christ upon the altar, the door of the sacristy opened anew and admitted a procession of little children, marching two and two, who traversed the choir and filed into the space to the right of the altar. These children, the oldest of whom had had scarce six years of life upon earth, wore crowns of immortelles and carried in their hands, some of them baskets of flowers, some of them little vases of perfume, others cups of gold and silver filled with a transparent liquid. They stepped lightly, and a celestial rapture shone upon their faces. One only, a little girl at the end of the procession, appeared to follow the others painfully, loaded down as she was with two great jars which she could hardly drag. Her little feet, reddening under the pressure, were lifted heavily, and her crown of immortelles seemed withered. The poor mother strove to reach out her arms, to utter a cry of joy on recognizing her own little one, but she found that she could neither move nor speak. She watched all the children file past her into the place to the left of the altar, and she recognized several who had but lately died. When her own child, bending under her burden, passed before her, she noticed that at every step the two jars besprinkled the floor with the water that filled them to the brim. When the little one's eyes met those of her mother, she saw in their depths a mingling of sadness, tenderness, and reproach. The poor woman strove to clasp her in her arms, but sight and consciousness alike fled from her. When she recovered from her swoon the church was empty.

"In a monastery about a league from the village, dwelt a monk who was renowned for his sanctity.

"This old man never left his cell, save to listen with sympathy to the bitter confessions of sinners, or to succor the afflicted. To the first he said:

"'I know the corruptness of man's nature, so be not cast down; come to me with confidence and courage every time you fall, and my arms shall ever be open to lift you up again.'

"To the second he said: 'Since God, who is so good, lays this burden upon you now, he is reserving you for infinite joys hereafter.'

"To all he said: 'If I should confess to you the story of my life, you would be astonished to behold in me a man who has been the sport of unbridled passion, and my misfortunes would melt you to tears.'

"The poor mother threw herself sobbing at his feet, and told him the marvelous thing she had seen. The compassionate old man, who had sounded the depths of the human heart, beheld here a favorable opportunity to set bounds to this excessive anguish.

"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination often cheats us with illusions which must be relegated to the realms of dream. Nevertheless, the Church teaches us that such marvels can really take place. It is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him who took the worlds into his hand and launched them into space. I accept, then, the vision, and I will explain it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb to say a mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and the sexton, by forgetfulness or negligence, was probably the cause of his omission. The children crowned with immortelles are those who died with their baptismal grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of flowers or vases of perfume are those whose mothers gave them up to God with holy resignation, comforted by the thought that they were exchanging this world of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver were the tears of mothers who, though torn by the anguish of their loss yet taught themselves to cry: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."'

"On her knees the poor mother drank in the old man's words. As Martha exclaimed at the feet of Christ, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor mother cried in her ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been with me, my father, my little one would not have died; but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.'

"The good monk reflected a moment and prayed God for wisdom. It was a sentence of life or of death that he was about to pronounce upon this mother who appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow which should either restore her to reason or break her heart forever. He took her hands in his withered and trembling clasp, and said gently:

"'You loved, then, this child whom you have lost?'

"'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And she threw herself moaning at his feet. Then, raising herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his cassock and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint, my father; oh, give me back my child – my darling!'

"'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one. Doubtless you would have done much to spare her even the lightest grief?'

"'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the poor woman; 'I would have been rolled on the hot coals to spare her a little burn.'

"'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless you love her yet?'

"'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the wretched mother, springing to her feet as if bitten by a serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know little of a mother's love if you imagine death can efface it.' And trembling from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of tears.

"'Begone, woman,' said the old man, forcing himself to speak with sternness; 'begone, woman, who hast come to impose upon me; begone, woman, who liest to God and to his priest. Thou hast seen thy little one staggering under the burden of thy tears, which she gathers drop by drop, and thou tellest me that thou lovest her! She is near thee now, toiling at her task; and thou sayest that thou lovest her! Begone, woman, for thou liest to God and to his minister!'

"The eyes of the poor woman were opened as if she were awaking from a frightful dream. She confessed that her grief had been insensate, and she besought the pardon of God.

"'Go in peace,' said the old man; 'resign yourself to God's will, and the peace of God will be shed upon your soul.'

"Some days after, she told the good monk that her little one, radiant with joy and carrying a basket of flowers, had appeared to her in a dream and thanked her for having ceased from her tears. The good woman, who was rich in this world's goods, devoted the rest of days and her substance to charity. To the children of the poor she gave most loving attention, and adopted several of them. When she died they wrote upon her tomb, 'Here lies the mother of the orphans.'"

All were deeply moved by Madame D'Haberville's story, and some were even in tears. Jules embraced his mother, and left the room to hide his emotion.

"O God," he cried, "guard this life of mine! for if evil should befall me, my loving mother would be as inconsolable as the mother in the story she has just told us."

A day or two later Jules and Archie were tossing upon the Atlantic; and at the end of two months, after a prosperous voyage, they reached the shores of France.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BURNING OF THE SOUTH SHORE

They came upon us in the night,And brake my bower and slew my knight:My servant a' for life did fleeAnd left us in the extremitie.They slew my knight, to me so dear;They slew my knight, and drove his gear;The moon may set, the sun may rise,But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.Waverley.

The trees were once more clothed in their wonted green after the passing of a northern winter. The woods and fields were enameled in a thousand colors, and the birds were raising their cheerful voices to greet the spring of the year 1759. All Nature smiled; only man seemed sorrowful and cast down; and the laborer no more lifted his gay song, and the greater portion of the lands lay fallow for lack of hands to till them. A cloud hung over all New France, for the mother country, a veritable step-mother, had abandoned her Canadian children. Left to its own resources, the Government had called to arms every able-bodied man to defend the colony against the invasion that menaced it. The English had made vast preparations. Their fleet, consisting of twenty ships of the line, ten frigates, and eighteen smaller vessels, accompanied by a number of transports, and carrying eighteen thousand men, was ascending the St. Lawrence under the command of General Wolfe; while two land armies, yet more numerous, were moving to effect a junction under the very walls of Quebec.

The whole adult population of Canada capable of bearing arms had responded with ardor to their country's appeal; and there remained at home none but the old and feeble, the women and the children. To resist an army more numerous than the entire population of New France the Canadians had little but the memory of past exploits, and of their glorious victory at Carillon in the preceding year. Of what avail their proved courage against an enemy so overpowering and sworn to their defeat?

You have long been misunderstood, my brethren of old Canada! Most cruelly have you been slandered. Honor to them who have lifted your memory from the dust! Honor, a hundred times honor, to our fellow-countryman, M. Garneau, who has rent the veil that covered your exploits! Shame to us who, instead of searching the ancient and glorious annals of our race, were content to bow before the reproach that we were a conquered people! Shame to us who were almost ashamed to call ourselves Canadians! Dreading to confess ourselves ignorant of the history of Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, that of our own country remained a sealed book to us.

Within the last few years there has come a glorious reaction. Every one sets his hand to the work and the Canadian can now say with Francis I, "All is lost save honor." I am far from believing, however, that all is lost. The cession of Canada was, perhaps, a blessing in disguise; for the horrors of '93 failed to touch this fortunate colony which was protected by the flag of Britain. We have gathered new laurels, fighting beneath the banner of England; and twice has the colony been saved to England by the courage of her new subjects. In Parliament, at the bar, upon the field of battle, everywhere in his small sphere, the French Canadian has proved himself inferior to none. For a century have you struggled, O my countrymen, to preserve your nationality, and you behold it yet intact. The future perhaps holds for you another century of effort and struggle to guard it. Take heart and stand together, fellow-countrymen.

Two detachments of the English army were disembarked at Rivière Ouelle, at the beginning of June, '79. Some of the habitants of the parish, concealed in the skirts of the wood, received them with a sharp fire and killed several men. The commander, exasperated at this loss, resolved to take signal vengeance. The two detachments ascended the river and encamped toward evening beside a brook which empties in Bay Ste. Anne, southwest of where the college now stands. On the following morning the commander ordered one of the companies to get ready to march, and summoning the lieutenant gave him the following orders:

"Every house you come across belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen, set fire to it. I will follow you a little later."

"But," said the young officer, who was a Scotchman, "must I burn the dwellings of those who offer no resistance? They say there is no one left in these houses except old men, women, and children."

"I think, sir," replied Major Montgomery, "that my orders are quite clear. You will set fire to every house belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen. I had forgotten your weakness for our enemies."

The young man bit his lips till they bled, and marched his men away. The reader has, doubtless, recognized in this young man none other than Archie de Lochiel, who, having made his peace with the British Government, had recovered possession of his estates and had obtained a lieutenancy in a regiment which he had himself recruited among the Highlanders of his own clan. Archie marched off groaning and muttering all the curses he could think of in English, Gaelic, and French. At the first house where he stopped a young woman flung herself weeping at his feet, crying piteously:

"Good sir, do not kill my poor old father. Do not shorten his days. He has but a little while to live."

A little boy eleven or twelve years old grasped him about the knees and exclaimed:

"Mister Englishman, do not kill grandpapa! If you only knew how good he is!"

"Do not fear," said Archie, entering the house, "I have no orders to kill old men, women, and children. They doubtless supposed," he added bitterly, "that I should meet none such on my route."

Stretched on a bed of pain lay a decrepit old man.

"I have been a soldier all my life, monsieur," said he. "I do not fear death, with whom I have been often face to face, but, in the name of God, spare my daughter and her child!"

"They shall not be injured," replied Archie, with tears in his eyes; "but if you are a soldier, you know that a soldier has to obey orders. I am ordered to burn all the buildings on my line of march, and I have to obey. Whither shall we move you, father? Listen," he added, speaking close in the old man's ear. "Your grandson appears active and intelligent. Let him get a horse and hasten to warn your fellow-countrymen that I have to burn down all the houses on my road. They will, perhaps, have time to save the most valuable of their belongings."

"You are a good and brave young man!" cried the old man. "If you were a Catholic I would give you my blessing; but thank you a thousand times, thank you!"

"I am a Catholic," said Lochiel.

The old man raised himself with difficulty, lifted his eyes toward heaven, spread his hands over Archie's bended head, and cried: "May God bless you for this act of humanity! In the day of heavy affliction, when you implore the pity of Heaven, may God take count of your compassion toward your enemies and give ear to your prayers! Say to him then with confidence in the sorest trials, 'I have the blessing of a dying old man, my enemy.'"

The old man in his bed was hastily carried by the soldiers to an adjoining wood, and when he resumed his march Lochiel had the satisfaction of seeing the little boy mounted on a swift horse and devouring the miles beneath him. Archie breathed more freely at the sight.

The work of destruction went on; but from time to time, whenever he reached the top of a hill, Archie had the satisfaction of seeing old men, women, and children, loaded down with their possessions, taking refuge in the neighboring woods. If he wept for their misfortunes, he rejoiced in his heart that he had done everything in his power to mitigate them.

All the houses of a portion of Rivière Ouelle, and of the parishes of Ste. Anne and St. Roch, along the edge of the St. Lawrence, were by this time in ashes, yet there came no order to cease from the work of destruction. From time to time, on the contrary, Lochiel saw the division of his superior officer, following in his rear, come to a halt on a piece of rising ground, doubtless for the purpose of permitting Major Montgomery to gloat over the results of his barbarous order.

The first house of St. Jean-Port-Joli was that of a rich habitant, a sergeant in Captain D'Haberville's company. Frequently during his vacations had Archie lunched at this house with Jules and his sister. With what a pang he recalled the eager hospitality of these people. On their arrival, Mother Dupont and her daughters used to run to the dairy, the barn, the garden, for eggs, butter, cream, parsley, and chervil, to make them pancakes and herb omelettes. Father Dupont and his sons would hasten to put up the horses and give them a generous measure of oats. While Mother Dupont was preparing the meal, the young people would make a hasty toilet. Then they would get up a dance, and skip merrily to the notes of the violin which screeched beneath the old sergeant's bow. In spite of the remonstrances of Blanche, Jules would turn everything upside down and tease everybody to death. He would snatch the frying-pan from the hands of Mother Dupont, throw his arm around her waist, and compel her, in spite of her struggles, to dance with him; and these good people would shout with laughter till one would think they could never get too much of the racket. All these things Lochiel went over in the bitterness of his soul, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow as he ordered the burning of this hospitable home.

Almost all the houses in the first concession of St. Jean-Port-Joli were by this time in ruins, yet there came no order to desist. About sunset, however, coming to the little river Port Joli, a few arpents from the D'Haberville place, Lochiel took it upon himself to halt his company. He climbed the hillside, and there, in sight of the manor, he waited; he waited like a criminal upon the scaffold, hoping against hope that a reprieve may come at the last moment. His heart was big with tender memories as he gazed upon the dwelling where for ten years the exiled orphan had been received as a child of the house. Sorrowfully he looked down on the silent village which had been so full of life when last he saw it. Some pigeons fluttering over the buildings and from time to time alighting on the roofs appeared to be the only living creatures about the manor. Sighing, he repeated the words of Ossian: