CHAPTER XX.
PREPARING FOR THE EXPEDITION.
PIERRE LE BER had lately been occupied in painting upon a piece of fair white linen a picture of the Virgin, and this he had embellished with all the beauties which an ardent imagination could suggest.
“Ciel!” cried Nanon, regarding the painting attentively, “It is a beautiful picture, and in truth it resembles our demoiselle.”
This speech greatly scandalized Anne Barroy.
“It is not sufficient that this proud turkey would claim for her mistress highest rank on earth; she would fain push her to the front among the heavenly host as well,” she whispered to one of her familiars.
Jeanne Le Ber, who excelled in embroidery, had made a very beautiful banner for the picture, and it was decided that this emblem of the protectress of the settlement should be presented to the war-party as a safeguard. Recognizing the fact that the panic-stricken settlers required every available encouragement that could be derived from both faith and patriotism, the ecclesiastical authorities organized a procession, as imposing as the resources of the colony would allow, to carry the flag to the Parish Church of Notre Dame, where it was to be consecrated by Dollier de Casson.
The church was a spacious building. Above the great altar, blazing with lights, rose an immense wooden image of our Saviour suspended on the cross. Behind it the dim glories of the choir deepened into golden gloom. From the lofty rood screen dark shadows, thrown by the lights of distant altars, brooded over the space beyond. At the head of the church, near the chancel, was placed a prie-dieu for the Governor of Ville Marie, who was surrounded by a brilliant group of officers. Soldiers thronged the side aisles, and all the intervening space was occupied by the confused movement of the throng of spectators. The eager faces of all turned toward the high altar, with the banner displayed before it, as though therein lay their only hope. Wistful women, scarcely able to restrain their streaming tears, or wrapt in the heroism of some higher purpose, gazed, hushed and awed, upon the little band of heroes who for faith and country were willing to face danger and risk life itself. Tears came to haggard eyes looking upon the flag. Patriotism was an inspiring principle, faith a fervent flame, to those who had already made great sacrifices for religion and country; there was even a thrill of sweetness in the thought of dying for it. A fine and simple courage sustained many a sinking spirit, and in the contagion of popular enthusiasm there was but slight betrayal of individual weakness. Many were moved to an almost passionate exhilaration by the martial music, while others were overcome by the pathos of the brave show, with its implied possibilities of horror, agony and death.
The service proceeded with intoning of litanies and chanting of psalms. From a grated gallery, beyond the obscurity of the screen and crucifix, floated the delicate harmony of sweet voices in wave after wave of soft melody, like the measured refrain of an angelic choir, echoes of an eternal voice speaking to the human soul. The choir intoned the libera, and when the concluding words of the last verse died away in the arched roof, a woman’s voice, clear, pure and penetratingly sweet, arose in the miseremine:
“Miseremine mei, miseremine mei saltem vos amici mei. De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine, Domine exaudi vocem meam.”
In the deepness of her human anguish, from the longing for strength to sustain a wounded spirit and fainting flesh, Diane de Monesthrol repeated:
“Out of the depths I cry unto Thee, oh, my God!”
She had come to realize that for herself nothing remained but an absolute, solitary and sorrowful renunciation; but this was no time for indulgence in sinking of heart or depression of soul. Some spirit stronger than herself took hold of her, giving her the look of an embodied passion, beautiful but terrible. Her figure and her whole attitude were instinct with resolution; every word and movement was vitalized by an inspiration. Her face was full of vehement life—eyes kindling, cheeks flushed, lips trembling, nostrils quivering. Led by some subtle intuition, timid souls crept near her for comfort and support. If an impatient expression broke from her unawares, she quickly controlled herself, and followed it with words of hope and consolation. Suffering was so new to her that any sort of exertion seemed preferable to passive endurance.
“Don’t leave me, Diane; you inspire me with courage. Oh! it is fine to be brave and strong as you; but then you are not risking your heart’s dearest; and you, who laugh at men’s follies, and despise their sentiment, you have never known what it is to give your heart to one alone. Hold me fast, then, Diane; let me feel you close when the time comes to look my last on Armand’s face—perhaps for ever. Oh! I dare not allow myself to think of that possibility. I am a soldier’s wife; do not let me forget it. I promised him to be brave, though my heart should break with the effort; he must not see me fail,” whispered little Madame de St. Rochs, all her childish features quivering in the effort to restrain her grief.
“My Cecile, your gallant soldier may be proud of your courage. You will do your best to strengthen his heart.”
An old woman, with two weeping children clutching frantically at the skirts of her gown, paused in mumbling her rosary as Diane passed, and held up her withered hands imploringly.
“Oh, Mademoiselle! it is Pierrot, my youngest, the father of these helpless little ones, who goes with the expedition. Their mother died at Easter. If anything happens to him they have but me to look to; and in these expeditions each man has his share, big or little, according to the size of the cake—”
“It is to fight for his country, my poor Mère Bernichou.”
“His country—but yes, they all say their skin belongs to themselves, and they must dispose of it to their taste; but when the men are killed what is to become of the old people and the babies, I ask you that? Three of Pierrot’s brothers went the same way, but not one ever returned. He is as strong as a lion, and he worked for us so well. Oh, my good and noble demoiselle! you are of those who are listened to by the Blessed Virgin and the holy saints; pray for us, I implore you.”
Lydia, the tears running down her pretty, piteous face, with so sad a curve of lips that seemed made for smiles, so wistful a glance in the swimming blue eyes, made no effort to control her sorrowful consternation. Trembling and shivering she clung to her friend’s arm, and Diane was able to soothe her as a generous woman in her tribulation may seek to console a creature more dependent than herself. She could even keep in mind the fact that, though weak and frivolous, Lydia had proved herself neither base nor deliberately treacherous; and she tried loyally to remember that in every kindness she offered the English girl she was lightening du Chesne’s burden.
As the crowd surged out from the church and flocked down to the beach, the scene was a bright and varied one. The St. Lawrence stretched out like a great mirror under the blaze of sunshine, reflecting every floating cloud above. St. Helen’s, with banks of velvet softness, arose out of this liquid light; the Mountain was varied with a hundred restless rays playing upon secluded slopes and woody hollows. The summer sun gleamed brightly upon bayonets and naked swords, and shone on the rich costumes of the gallant French officers, whose nodding plumes shaded hats adorned with gold, and whose lace ruffles, sashes and sword-knots made a brave show. Some of the regulars wore light armor, while the Canadians were in plain attire of coarse cloth and buckskin, their provisions strapped on their backs. Much rivalry existed between the latter and the French. The Canadians had adopted the Indian mode of fighting, while the Frenchmen, accustomed only to civilized warfare, found it difficult to adapt themselves to the methods of the savages.
Among the soldiers walked, with a solemn dignity befitting the occasion, the dog which was inscribed on the regimental list as M. de Niagara, and to whom regular rations were granted. The progeny of a dog named Vingt Sols, who had done good service at the fort of Niagara, where he was held in high esteem, this animal had been brought from that place by M. de Bergères and taken to Chambly, where his master served as commandant. As the roads leading to this post were often blocked by Iroquois war parties, it was found extremely difficult to send or receive news from Montreal. At this critical juncture M. de Niagara solved the problem of how despatches might be conveyed. It was noticed by the garrison at Chambly that the dog found his way of his own accord to La Prairie de la Madeleine. Fearing that some of the French with whom he had started had been captured by their enemies, a letter was written and fastened to the animal’s collar, and he was driven out of the fort. He at once took the road whence he had come. Reaching Chambly, the despatch was read, and, with an answer tied to his collar, the dog was sent off again. Thus communication was established between the two posts, and many a life saved. M. de Niagara always took part in reviews, was profoundly conscious of his own importance, and was regarded by the soldiers with the greatest affection as a true and staunch comrade.
A corporal drummer, escorted by two armed soldiers, marched through the streets beating a rhythmic movement, which, joined with the shrill notes of a fife, thrilled the nerves, while the air resounded with the deep clamor of bells mingling with the fantastic cries of the Indians and bushrangers. The condition of things was so precarious that a courage born of desperation inspired the colonists. “In order to breathe,” they assured one another, “one must hope.” It was hard to realize grim possibilities of death and disaster amidst sunshine and music and movement. After all, if the worst were to come, it was better to enjoy the present moment. The spirit of adventure had already made itself felt in the French blood, a rapid current wonderfully susceptible to elation. A wild gaiety began to exhibit itself. Not to be subdued by an emergency, certain lively youths could be heard shouting hilariously to one another.
“I lost my tobacco pouch,” cried Bras de Fer, to whom the prospect of action had restored a comfortable spirit of self-assertion; “one quite new, too, made out of the skin of a little seal that I killed on the Island of M. de St. Helène last year. Ah! if one of those English wizards falls into my claws, and I don’t succeed in making a better pouch out of his skin, may I be scalped before All Saints. The fox counts on eating the goose, but there are occasions when things turn the other way; then it is the goose who gets a chance at the fox. Our hearts are in this affair, and that is something.”
“It is impossible to content all the world and his father,” grumbled an old soldier, “or to take time to enquire what his servants, his ass or his ox may think about. For my part, I enjoy these little skirmishes; they give a spice of variety to life. I don’t want to spend my days telling stories in the chimney corner.”
“My little brother Jaquot, a true imp of the devil, who is only thirteen and can manage the arquebus like a man, says, ‘It’s the season for plums, and truly we will make them eat the stones.’ No fear but we shall turn out all right. Our captain is brave as the King’s sword; no one need fear to follow his lead. After all, I like better to kill the devil than to permit him to kill me. But pardon, my commandant,”—Baptiste took the freedom of an old and trusted servant—“Pardon, but it is an evil day to start on an expedition.”
“And why, pray, Master Bras de Fer? What are you croaking about there, old bird of ill-omen?” All shade of melancholy had passed from du Chesne’s spirit as soon as practical affairs required his attention. His face was now all alight with martial excitement. Amidst the cheerful sounds of human bustle and movement his spirits rose to any height of adventure.
“Is not to-day Friday? Don’t laugh, my commandant; we don’t learn these things from books, they are what we see and know; every chance counts. The day of ill-omen, I would it were another day we were starting.”
“Bah! old wives’ tales,” du Chesne laughed merrily. “You will never give a thought to that when once the fight begins. Let me hear no more such nonsense.”
Bras de Fer shook his head in solemn disapprobation.
“A closed mouth never swallows flies. I might have spared my breath. To think that I carried him in my arms and taught him to shoot! The Lord send me plenty such commandants, there are not many like him; but Friday—I like it not.”
“You have a rage for searching noon at fourteen o’clock, my poor Bras de Fer,” remonstrated the old soldier. “Saccagé—Chien! I have heard that spoken of—the ill-luck of starting on Friday—but once let us come in sight of those English and we shall think of neither A nor B.”