Cameron of Lochiel 12+The Burning of the South Shore+
18
Literature · Romance
Cameron of Lochiel 12
+The Burning of the South Shore+
RobertsEnglish
They came upon us in the night,
And brake my bower and slew my knight:
My servant a' for life did flee
And 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:
"'Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone in the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field.'
"Oh! Oui! Mes amis!" cried Lochiel, in the language that he loved, "vos salons sont maintenant, hélas! deserts et silencieux! There is no sound upon this hill which so lately was echoing your bright voices. I hear only the ripples lapping upon the sand. One pale ray from the setting sun is all that lights your meadows.
"What shall I do, kind Heaven, if the rage of the brute who commands me is not yet sated? Should I refuse to obey him? Then am I dishonored. A soldier can not in time of war refuse to carry out the orders of his commander. This brute could have me shot upon the spot, and the shield of the Camerons would be forever tarnished. Who would trouble himself to see that justice was done to the memory of the soldier who chose death rather than the stain of ingratitude? On the contrary, that which was with me but an emotion of grateful remembrance, would certainly be imputed to me for treason by this creature who hounds me with his devilish malice."
The harsh voice of Major Montgomery put an end to these reflections.
"What are you doing here?" he growled.
"I have left my men by the edge of the river, and was proposing to encamp there after our long march."
"It is not late," answered the major, "and you know the country better than I. You will easily find for your encampment another place than that which I have just chosen for myself."
"I will march at once," said Archie. "There is another river about a mile from here where we can camp for the night."
"Very well," said Montgomery, in an insolent voice; "and as you have but a few more houses to burn in this district, your men will soon be able to rest."
"It is true," said Lochiel, "for there remain but five more dwellings. Two of these, however, the group of buildings which you see yonder and a mill on the stream where I am going to camp, belong to the Seigneur D'Haberville, the man who during my exile took me in and treated me as a son. For God's sake, Major Montgomery, give the order yourself for their destruction!"
"I never should have believed," replied the major, "that a British officer would have dared to utter treason."
"You forget, sir," said Archie, restraining himself with difficulty, "that I was then a mere child. But once more I implore you, in the name of all you hold most dear, give the order yourself, and do not force upon me the dishonor of setting the torch to the home of them who in my days of adversity heaped me with benefits."
"I understand," replied the major, with a sneer, "you wish to keep a way open to return to the favor of your friends when occasion shall arise."
At this insulting sarcasm Archie was tempted for an instant to draw his claymore and cry:
"If you are not as cowardly as you are insolent, defend yourself, Major Montgomery!"
Happily, reason came to his aid. Instead of grasping his sword, his hand directed itself mechanically toward his breast, which he tore fiercely. Then he remembered the words of the witch:
"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel, when, forced to execute a barbarous order, your nails shall tear that breast which covers, nevertheless, a noble heart."
"She was indeed taught of hell, that woman," thought he, "when she uttered that prophecy to a Cameron of Lochiel."
With malicious pleasure Montgomery watched for a moment the strife of passions which tortured the young man's heart. He gloated over his despair. Then, persuaded that Archie would refuse to obey, he turned his back upon him. Lochiel, perceiving his treacherous design, hastened to rejoin his men, and a half-hour later the buildings were in flames. Archie paused beside the fountain where in happier days he had so often refreshed himself with his friends; and from that spot his lynx-like eyes discerned Montgomery, who had returned to the hill-top, and there with folded arms stood feasting on the cruel scene.
Foaming with rage at the sight of his enemy, Archie cried:
"You have a good memory, Montgomery. You have not forgotten the time when my ancestor beat your grandfather with the flat of his saber in an Edinburgh tavern. But I, also, have a good memory. I shall not always wear this uniform that now ties my hands, and sooner or later I will redouble the dose upon your own shoulders, for you would be too much of a coward to meet me in fair fight. A beast like you can not possess even the one virtue of courage. Curse be you and all your race! When you come to die may you be less fortunate than those whose dwellings you have desolated to-day, and may you have no place to lay your head! May all the pangs of hell--"
Then, ashamed of the impotence of his rage, he moved away with a groan.
The mill upon the Trois-Saumons River was soon but a heap of cinders, and the burning of Captain D'Haberville's property in Quebec, which took place during the siege, was all that was needed to complete his ruin.
After taking the necessary precautions for the safety of his company, Archie directed his steps to the desolated manor. There, seated on the summit of the bluff, he gazed in the silence of anguish on the smoking ruins at his feet. It must have been about nine o'clock. The night was dark, and few stars revealed themselves in the sky. Presently, however, he made out a living creature wandering among the ruins. It was old Niger, who lifted his head toward the bluff and began howling piteously. Archie thought the faithful animal was reproaching him with his ingratitude, and bitter tears scalded his cheeks.
"Behold," said he, "the fruits of what we call the code of honor of civilized nations! Are these the fruits of Christianity, that religion of compassion which teaches us to love even our enemies? If my commander were one of these savage chiefs, whom we treat as barbarians, and I had said to him: 'Spare this house, for it belongs to my friends. I was a wanderer and a fugitive, and they took me in and gave me a father and a brother,' the Indian chief would have answered: 'It is well; spare your friends; it is only the viper that stings the bosom that has warmed it.'
"I have always lived in the hope," went on Lochiel, "of one day rejoining my Canadian friends, whom I love to-day more than ever, if that were possible. No reconciliation would have been required. It was natural I should seek to regain my patrimony, so nearly dissipated by the confiscations of the British Government. There remained to me no career but the army, the only one worthy of a Cameron. I had recovered my father's sword, which one of my friends had bought back from among the spoils of Culloden. Bearing this blade, which had never known a stain, I dreamed of a glorious career. I was grieved, indeed, when I learned that my regiment was to be sent against New France; but a soldier could not resign in time of war without disgrace. My friends would have understood that. But what hope now for the ingrate who has ravaged the hearth of his benefactors! Jules D'Haberville, whom I once called my brother, his gentle and saintly mother, who took me to her heart, the fair girl whom I called my sister to hide a deeper feeling--these will, perhaps, hear my justification and end by forgiving me. But Captain D'Haberville, who loves with all his heart, but who never forgives an injury, can it be imagined that he will permit his family to utter my name, unless to curse it?
"But I am a coward and a fool," continued Archie, grinding his teeth, "I should have declared before my men my reasons for refusing to obey, and, though Montgomery had had me shot upon the spot, there would have been found loyal spirits to approve my refusal and to right my memory. I have been a coward and a fool, for in case the major, instead of having me shot, had tried me before a court-martial, even while pronouncing my death sentence they would have appreciated my motives. I would have been eloquent in the defense of my honor, and of that noblest of human sentiments, gratitude. Oh, my friends, would that you could see my remorse! Coward, ten thousand times coward!--"
A voice near him repeated the words "Coward, ten thousand times coward!" He thought at first it was the echo from the bluff. He raised his head and perceived the witch of the manor standing erect on a projecting rock. She stretched out her hands over the ruins, and cried: "Woe! woe! woe!" Then she descended like lightning, by a steep and dangerous path, and wandered to and fro among the ruins, crying: "Desolation! desolation! desolation!" At length she raised her arm with a gesture of menace, pointed to the summit of the bluff, and cried in a loud voice: "Woe to you, Archibald de Lochiel!"
The old dog howled long and plaintively, then silence fell upon the scene.
Archie's head sank upon his breast. The next moment four savages sprang upon him, hurled him to the ground, and bound his hands. These were four warriors of the Abénaquis, who had been spying upon the movements of the English ever since their landing at Rivière Ouelle. Relying upon his tremendous strength, Archie made desperate efforts to break his bonds. The tough moose-hide which enwound his wrists in triple coils stretched mightily, but resisted all his efforts. Seeing this, Archie resigned himself to his fate, and followed his captors quietly into the forest. His vigorous Scottish legs spared him further ill treatment. Bitter were the reflections of the captive during the rapid southward march through the forest, wherein he had so often hunted with his brother D'Haberville. Heedless of the fierce delight of the Indians, whose eyes flashed at the sight of his despair, he exclaimed:
"You have conquered, Montgomery; my curses recoil upon my own head. You will proclaim that I have deserted to the enemy, that I am a traitor as you long suspected. You will rejoice indeed, for I have lost all, even honor." And like Job, he cursed the day that he was born.
After two hours' rapid marching they arrived at the foot of the mountain which overlooks Trois Saumons Lake, on which water Archie concluded that they would find an encampment of the Abénaquis. Coming to the edge of the lake, one of his captors uttered three times the cry of the osprey; and the seven echoes of the mountain repeated, each three times, the piercing and strident call of the great swan of Lower Canada. At any other time Lochiel would have thrilled with admiration at the sight of this beautiful water outspread beneath the starlight, enringed with mountains and seeded with green-crowned islets. It was the same lake to which, for ten happy years, he had made hunting and fishing excursions with his friends. It was the same lake which he had swum at its widest part to prove his prowess. But to-night all Nature appeared as dead as the heart within him. From one of the islets came a birch canoe, paddled by a man in Indian garb, but wearing a cap of fox-skin. The new comer held a long conversation with the four savages, but Archie was ignorant of the Abénaquis tongue, and could make out nothing of what they said. Two of the Indians thereupon started off to the southwest; but Archie was put into the canoe and taken to the islet.
