Roger Davis, Loyalist

by Frank Baird

'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA.' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP.

We gathered about the map, a new and peculiar interest attaching to it, owing to the situation in which we were placed.

Duncan Hale explained fully and clearly that all the land on both sides of the water marked Bay of Fundy was called Nova Scotia. This was a single province, which had a Governor who lived in Halifax. 'Canada,' Lord Percy explained later to my mother, 'is known as the Province of Quebec. There are many French there,' he said; 'but in Nova Scotia most of the people are English or Scotch. In Halifax they have had a Parliament for some years now, and from all we have been able to learn the people here'—he swept his hand all over the peninsula and around the Bay of Fundy—'are happy and prosperous in the enjoyment of the liberties of all British subjects.'

After touching on the question of sailing for England, we discussed with Lord Percy more fully the relative merits of Canada and Nova Scotia. Then we went out.

As we passed along, we noticed that the streets were crowded. There were many soldiers in their bright red uniforms, but the great majority of the people were like ourselves—refugees who had come in from the surrounding towns and country for protection from the rebels who were daily becoming more insolent and offensive. We had come almost to the quarters kindly put at our disposal by Lord Percy, when in a crowd of plain countrymen I caught sight of a face which I was quite sure I had seen before. Doctor Canfield went on with my mother and sisters, while Duncan Hale and I turned aside.

A moment later, hearing the voice of the man who had attracted my attention, I was fully convinced that I had hit upon my old fellow-prisoner of the mine at Lexington, David Elton. He shook my hand warmly, told me briefly of his escape, and of his return to his home.

'But when I got back,' he went on, 'I found a great change in the settlement. Some had taken up arms on the side of the people; some had enlisted with the King's men. I and several others could not think it was right to fight on either side. Finally they came an' burned our houses, an' drove off our stock, so we had to flee.'

'What are your plans for the future?' I asked.

'Some o' them here'—he waved his hand over the group of hardy, honest-looking farmers—'have been talkin' o' goin' to—what's the name o' the place?' he said, turning to those who stood behind him.

'Nova Scotia,' several said at once.

'Aye, Nova Scotia. That's it. There's peace there, they say, an' plenty o' better lan' than what we've had here on the hillsides. Most of us have about made up our minds to go there.'

'Well done,' broke in Duncan Hale at this; 'for myself I'd rather be there on two meals a day under the flag of the King than living as a lord here among traitors, rebels and cut-throats.'

At this a few of the crowd hurrahed and pressed closer. They listened attentively for some time, as Duncan told them of the new land in the north to which their minds had already turned. As I looked on this group of rough, plain men eagerly listening to the schoolmaster, as I marked their hard hands and weather-beaten faces, as I heard them cheer the King's name, it came to me that it was not the cultured and refined only who were with the King. The bone and sinew of the country, as well as the brain and learning of it, were united in their loyalty to the cause that was growing dearer to me every day. The siege of Boston dragged slowly and painfully on. Weeks slid into months, and still no decided advantage was gained by either side. There were times when we heard that it would be useless to go to either Canada or Nova Scotia, for these already had been invaded and conquered. All communication by land was cut off, and closer and closer about the city were drawn the lines of the besiegers. English ships kept coming and going, but gradually it began to dawn upon me that Boston must be given up.

The winter was wearing towards spring of the year 1776. The condition of things in Boston was far from comfortable. It was eight months since we had left our home in Cambridge. Almost all who sympathised with the besiegers had left the city, but it was still much overcrowded. The fleet lay in the harbour, but the supply ships from England came less and less regularly. Food began to be scarce and dear. The trade of busy and prosperous Boston languished almost to nothing. A spirit of grumbling discontent seized the soldiers. The heart of the Loyalists sank very low. Drunkenness and disorder, crime and confusion, were spreading.

It was during these dull, heavy days when even my mother's brave spirit had almost deserted her, when even Doctor Canfield found it hard to be cheerful, and when I was feeling particularly depressed, that a new hope suddenly entered my life. For some time my sister Caroline had been endeavouring to turn my mind inward upon myself. An experience quite unlooked for lent her strange and powerful assistance.

She had cautioned me again and again not to expose myself to danger from the enemy. Several shells thrown by the besiegers had been bursting in the city lately, and had done considerable damage.

'Be careful, Roger,' Caroline said to me on leaving home one day for my usual walk about the city: 'How dreadful it would be both for us and yourself if anything should happen to you.'

As I walked I could not help recalling the words, 'How dreadful for yourself if anything should happen to you.'

Did my sister really think I was unprepared for death? I had heard her pray earnestly for me. I noticed that while the rest spoke much of the war and the danger about us she said little of these things. For the future she seemed to have no fear, except her fear for me. Why was this? I was not openly wicked. I was not profane, and yet I was sure my sister had a faith, a peace, a happiness even in our distressing circumstances that I did not possess.

It was at that moment that a great crashing noise fell upon my ears. A shell burst almost at the feet of a man who had been walking but a few yards in front of me. Through the great cloud of dust raised I saw him fall; I heard him shriek out a prayer to God for mercy upon him; and then a few moments later he was dead.

For almost a year I had been familiar with the sight of many wounded and dead. I had known of many being thus suddenly taken off; and yet my own need of preparation never came home to me as at that moment. Had I been a few yards further ahead all would have been over with me. Then my sister's words came back with double meaning.

That night, in the quiet of my small room, I poured out my soul to God in prayer for forgiveness. I made up my mind that whether we finally resolved upon going to England, to Canada, or to Nova Scotia, I would go not in my own strength, but in the strength of God and in dependence upon Christ as my Saviour.

My decision was not made any too soon. The next morning showed that during the night the Americans had strongly fortified themselves on the heights much nearer the city than ever before. Seeing this, a council of war was held by the British officers, and it was decided that Boston must be given up at once.

The following night the whole army, with eleven hundred Loyalists like ourselves, were hurried on board the King's ships that lay in the harbour, and by the time the sun rose we were well down the bay, with our vessels headed for the new land in the north called Nova Scotia.

Chapter IX

In the 'True North'

As the vessels drew away from Boston I was surprised to hear not a single expression of regret. On all of the forty or more vessels there were crowded, in addition to the soldiers, over a thousand men and women who were leaving the land of their birth for a country that was new, strange, and practically unknown. Behind them, on the slopes that rose from the city, through the lifting mist of the morning, many could distinguish the outlines of the farms they had cleared by long and patient toil. The white of their comfortable homes stood out sharply against the grey ground about them and the green forest behind. In the making of these clearings and homes, men and women had grown old; neither the suns of summer nor the storms of winter had turned them aside from their great purpose of living honestly, of passing the result of years of toil on to their children, and then lying down to sleep in the hillside cemeteries with their fathers.

But the plans slowly being matured through the years had been rudely broken in upon. War had come. And now, though they might have remained; though history afforded, as Duncan Hale affirmed, no parallel for their action in leaving as they did; though no sword had been lifted up to drive them hence; though no law but the law of their own consciences bound them, they were sailing away. And while they looked back with interest, I could not see on the many faces about me a single evidence of pain at the going. Many of the men were old, and must begin in the new land, where they had begun here fifty years ago; but, as was fitting in the pioneers of a new way for many thousands of their countrymen who were to follow them during the war and after its close, they looked back that day upon the receding shores of Massachusetts without regrets, and when the homes and farms could no longer be seen on the grey, cold slopes, they turned dry eyes and resolute faces to the sea and the pure March north wind. If the country to which they went would be new, the flag, at least, would be the old one.

As soon as we were well away from Boston, a feeling of buoyancy possessed us. The sun shone brilliantly; this, together with the wide stretch of sparkling sea about us, the shouting from ship to ship, the feeling of freedom after so many weary months of restraint in the besieged city, all tended to render us unexpectedly happy. Social distinctions vanished. One in our loyalty, we resolved to be one in everything. My mother moved about among the farmer women from the country, and at times talked even gaily with them. Elizabeth romped the decks with children of her age from the hillsides, while Duncan Hale and Doctor Canfield, both of whom were on our ship, discussed plans for the future with the men.

On the afternoon of the third day after sailing we entered Halifax harbour. I was standing by Duncan Hale.

'It's all magnificent, magnificent,' I heard him say partly to himself. 'The whole British navy might enter here and manoeuvre.'

Then he hastened away to find Doctor Canfield. When he returned with him the vessel was well within the projecting horns of land that shut the great harbour safely in from the ocean swell. On our left a high bold bluff rose sheer from the water to a great height; on the right the land lay much lower. Directly in front lay the harbour. It ran away to the north for full six or seven miles, by two or three in breadth, and was dotted with the ships that had come in before, and hedged about on every side by the dark magnificent forests—here and there broken by ledges of rock. Doctor Canfield surveyed it all slowly.

'Why, it's a whole inland sea,' he said at length. 'Neither Boston harbour nor any others on the whole New England coast can be compared with this.'

Many others made remarks, all expressing wonder at the magnificence of the harbour and the beauty of the surrounding country. At sight of the Union Jack flying from a tall staff on the top of a great mound some distance in front and to the left, a feeling of proud satisfaction came in upon me. The feeling of my new responsibility seemed to press upon me as it had not done before. The wind blew down over the forests fresh and cool, for it was yet March; here and there broad patches of snow held fast in the hollows.

Our means were very limited; the new land before us was evidently a wilderness. But when I had looked for a moment on the well-known flag waving from the distant hilltop, when from this I allowed my thoughts to run on upward to Him whom I had solemnly pledged myself to serve, no matter where we went or what happened, then for a time in the great happiness that came upon me, I forgot that I was but a boy of not yet seventeen, landing in a strange country with the responsibility of supporting my mother and two sisters resting upon me. God had heard my prayer for the safety of myself and others. I recalled Doctor Canfield's last text, and felt that I could best honour the King by now more reverently fearing God.

It was at this point that I was startled to hear my sister Caroline, who had been standing beside me—looking forward in silence—break out sweetly, but in a low voice, into an old familiar hymn. The spirit of the words gave fitting expression to my own feelings, and forgetting those about me, I joined with her as she sang:—

'O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.'

With the opening of the second verse we were joined by many others. Soon it seemed that every person on the crowded deck was singing. Other ships caught it. Just as we drew to the landing-place the singers reached the last verse, and surely nothing could have been more appropriate than the words:—

'O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home.'

The words had a strangely moving effect upon the people's emotions. Tears that had refused to flow on leaving Boston, now, with many, had their way.

Doctor Canfield, seizing the opportunity presented by the quiet that followed the hymn, stepped forward, and in simple but beautiful language offered up a prayer of thanks for deliverance from the deep, and finally and earnestly commended all to the guidance and the mercy of God for the days to come.

A little later, as great bars of scarlet were shooting up from the west, over the hill on which gaily flew the King's flag—for which we had willingly sacrificed so much—happy in the consciousness of having done right, strong in faith for the future, like our ancient ancestors the Pilgrim Fathers, with both songs and prayers on our lips, we stepped ashore. And from that day—the 30th of March, 1776—though we did not know it, a new nation began to be made, in the 'True North,' on Canadian soil.

The Governor of Nova Scotia welcomed us heartily. The sudden and unexpected arrival of so many soldiers and Loyalists produced some difficulties, but everything possible was done to make us comfortable. For those of the Loyalists who had no means, both food and shelter were provided by the Government. With the assistance of Doctor Canfield, I was able to secure a temporary lodging for my mother and my sisters at a moderate rental. In this we proposed to remain until matters assumed a more settled shape, and we were enabled to resolve upon a course for the future.

Fully two weeks were occupied before all the people were even fairly well provided for. Many had to be content with sheds, barns, and warehouses for homes. Good food was not always easily obtained. Many who had been accustomed only to finely carpeted halls, and to couches of down, were forced to occupy quarters where the floors were of rough planks, and the beds of straw.

But there was no complaining. We resolutely determined to be happy; and we were happy. On the streets, in the quarters I visited, at the market, about the wharves, and on the ships, people moved care-free and light-hearted. Few spoke of the country we had left. There were many entertainments. The Governor, the army officers, the members of the council, and the more wealthy citizens opened their homes freely for our entertainment and comfort, and in a remarkably short time the memory of our sufferings and loss began to fade. To many, the old, happy days of colonial Boston came suddenly back again.

It was one evening when the entire city had passed under the spell of this lighter mood, that I walked with Duncan Hale to the top of the great mound where flew the flag. The warmth of the beautiful spring air was everywhere about us. The grass had sprung green on the hillslopes, the brooks ran full to overflowing, and the dark green of the great forest was taking on a lighter shade. But Duncan's face wore a heavy, apprehensive look.

'I have seen the Governor,' he said in answer to a question, 'and things at present are far from hopeful. The rebels have been winning in New England. Many in this province whom the Government had hoped would be loyal have refused the oath of allegiance to the King. A few have openly declared for the enemy. Two nights ago a cargo of hay being shipped from here to New York for the King's cavalry was burned. Worst of all, reports have come from about the great bay to the north—from the St. John and Miramichi Rivers, that thousands of the Indians, urged by agents from the rebel General Washington, are on the point of rising.'

At the last words I suddenly stopped. The beauties of the spring evening had no more charm for me. 'Can all this be true?' I gasped.

'It is not to be denied, the Governor fears,' Duncan said. 'Halifax may be besieged in less than a month.'

'But cannot something be done?' I cried.

'The Governor has one hope, that the Indians on the St. John may yet be kept loyal. He has asked me to go with others and make the attempt.'

'I shall go also,' I said, 'if the Governor will permit.'

'The Indian is treacherous; there will be danger.'

'I shall go though, Duncan: I must go, if I may be of service. I thought all was now safe.'

'So do many. Few in the city know our real danger. And another thing that is discouraging is this: David Elton and many other farmers, who have been into the country for several miles, say that it is absolutely unfit for cultivation. Rocks, rocks, and only rocks everywhere is their report. Food also is running very low in the city.'

We turned and walked down the slope. Had I been right in being so cheerful?

As I entered the door of our temporary home, I heard my mother and Caroline in earnest conversation.

'But I ought to accept the offer, mother,' my sister was saying. 'We are poor now, and our money is half spent already. What are we to do when it is gone? Are we to remain, like so many others, a burden on the King and the Government?'

'But, Caroline,' my mother said, 'you must remember your family, your name, and social standing. To accept this position means that you become a servant. Have you considered that, my dear?'

'Yes, mother,' Caroline said as I entered the room, 'I have thought of that. But how can there be any disgrace in doing honest work? I am strong and well; I want to do something to help Roger support you and Lizzie.'

My mother did not speak. I saw that a conflict was going on within her, the conflict that had to be fought out in so many Loyalist breasts between pride and necessity in Canada. But in this, as in most other cases, necessity won. My proud-spirited mother was finally overborne in her opposition to my sister's proposal. Before we slept that night, it was agreed that Caroline should enter a Halifax family where she would earn some ten shillings per week teaching two children and doing some other light duties.

We were surprised the next morning by an early visit from Duncan Hale.

'The Governor,' he said addressing me, 'will give you a place as secretary to one of the officers who is to go to St. John with Lieutenant-Governor Hughs to attempt to pacify the Indians. The salary will be six shillings per day. Will you go?'

'Yes,' I said eagerly; 'I will.'

Chapter X

The Treaty

The details of the expedition to the Indians on the St. John were finally arranged, and we set off. Duncan Hale was to act as secretary to Sir Richard Hughs, the lieutenant-governor, while I was assigned to a similar position under a certain Colonel Francklin, who had been appointed by the Government as superintendent of Indian affairs. There went with us also a Rev. Father Bourg, a former missionary to the Indians, a Romanist, a man of French descent, but, as I was afterwards to learn, a valuable and loyal subject of King George.

Our party, including soldiers and a few gentlemen who went to look over the country north of the bay, with a view to getting some of the many farmers who had come from Boston to settle upon it, numbered, in all, twenty-seven persons.

Somewhat tired from the long journey on horseback over a road that was exceedingly rough, we finally reached Annapolis. The country about here was partly settled, and seemed to be remarkably fertile. There were wide, rich marshes, orchards, and many well-cultivated farms, occupied mainly by settlers who had come in from the American Colonies before the war. These lands, Father Bourg explained to me, had originally been occupied by his ancestors, who had come from France over a hundred years previously.

From Annapolis we took a sailing vessel, and were soon across the Bay of Fundy, and in the harbour at the mouth of the great St. John River. The shores of the harbour seemed to be particularly rocky and forbidding. At a place called Portland Point, where we landed, there were a few buildings, somewhat rudely constructed, and used mainly by a trading company that, for years, had done business with the Indians and others up the river. On a hill to the eastward was a fort, called Fort Howe; everywhere else, down even to the water's edge, stretched the black, unbroken forest.

We found the members of the trading company here, though American born—unlike some others afterwards discovered up the river—to be true and loyal subjects of the King. They exerted themselves to house us comfortably, and then proceeded to give us much valuable information.

'The Indians,' I heard Mr. Simonds, the head of the company, tell Colonel Francklin, the evening of the day of our arrival, 'are becoming more and more insolent. Not only have agents from the rebels been among them, but their chiefs have, in answer to a special invitation, visited General Washington at Boston. He there spoke many flattering words to them, told them also that the English were planning to take their country and make them slaves. Besides this he gave them large presents, presented them with a wampum belt, a flag—a new design with stars and stripes—provided them with arms, and finally exacted a promise from them to kill or drive out the English found on the St. John.'

I saw Colonel Francklin's face take on a look of keen anxiety. 'Have these chiefs yet returned?' he asked.

'They have. For some days on the upper waters of the river they have been poisoning the minds of the tribes. Cattle of the loyal settlers have been driven off by them, houses burned, while the boats and nets of some of our fishermen have been destroyed.'

That night there was a long conference at the little trading post. The next morning Colonel Francklin, Father Bourg, Mr. Simonds and myself, with some dozen others, went on board a small sailing vessel, and proceeded up the river, the plan being to meet the Indians and bring them to the fort for an interview with the lieutenant-governor.

As our vessel swung away from the wharf, and proceeded up the great stream, I could not help admiring the grandeur of the scenery. On the right there arose a great cliff of bluish white limestone. Far up this a few workmen, in the employ of Mr. Simonds, were chipping and drilling the rock, while down near the water's edge, where two schooners were being loaded with barrels of lime, great puffs of smoke rose from the kilns. It was my first glimpse of industry in the new country.

After passing the cliffs, the banks of the river fell away back, affording us a full and magnificent view of the great stream and its surroundings. Far up the valley ahead, narrowed by the distance and sparkling in the flood of May sunlight, I could see the winding line of the river sliding among other lower hills, which showed blue through the lifting mist. White, circling gulls shrieked out protests as they swooped angrily very near to the Union Jack at our masthead; but apart from this, and the strong swish of waters about our bows, the unbroken silence of the great wilderness was over all.

Standing on the deck and looking about, a feeling of exceeding smallness and loneliness came in upon me. I had seen nothing like this in New England, nor yet in Nova Scotia, for richness, for real magnificent bigness and beauty. The sky above seemed higher and bluer, the water below was clearer, the wind purer, the sweep of scenery finer than any my memory could recall. Was nature to help in compensating us for what we had lost and left behind? Had fate been cruel a year ago in order to be kinder now? At any rate I felt as I looked out over it all, then up at the small flag flaunting its red gaily against the blue, that with these hills about me, with this river in front and with that flag and God above me, I could be happy. I breathed a prayer, then I resolved to make a home for my mother and sisters on the River St. John.

The evening of the second day on the river was approaching when I saw Father Bourg rise from his seat on the deck, and advancing to the vessel's prow, look eagerly up the stream. When he turned he said simply, 'De Indian; dey are coming in great number.'

For some time I could see nothing; but under the direction of the good priest I was finally able to make out a long, thin line far up the river, stretching almost from bank to bank.

'Dese are canoe,' he said, and then leaving me to look and wonder, he was off to seek out Colonel Francklin and Mr. Simonds.

In half an hour our vessel was surrounded by over five hundred warriors in ninety canoes. It was evident from the first that they were hostile. The flag at our masthead became a target for many arrows; now and then there sounded out sharply the crack of an American rifle; there was also much shouting and wild jeering such as I had never heard before. In one of the leading canoes waved a flag that bore stars and stripes upon it. It was the new flag of the rebel colonies, and had been presented to the chiefs by Washington. The sight of this filled me with much bitterness.

As the canoe bearing the flag came nearer to our vessel, I saw some of the anxiety disappear from the face of Father Bourg. He said something I did not hear to Colonel Francklin, then the next moment advanced to the rail. 'Pierre Tomah,' he shouted, 'Pierre Tomah'; then still speaking very loudly in a language I had never heard before, he briefly addressed a distinguished-looking warrior who sat under the flag.

When he had finished the warrior rose. He was a man of magnificent proportions. His tall plume swayed in the gentle wind, and his brilliant costume glittered in the evening sun. 'I baptize him feefteen years ago on de Restigouche,' I heard Father Bourg say in a low voice to Colonel Francklin. 'Dis is most fortunate: we may yet succeed.'

The chief lifted his hand commandingly to those behind him. Without a word the five hundred warriors dropped their rifles and removed the arrows from their bow-strings. A great silence fell over the fleet of swaying canoes. On our vessel each man breathed uneasily. Pierre Tomah was the chief of all the Indians in the great country north of the Bay of Fundy. On the Restigouche, on the wide, full Miramichi, on the St. John and all its branches, his word was law.

'Pere Bourg,' I heard the great chief say in opening, and then all was unintelligible to me for a time. At length I caught the word 'Washington' and a moment after I saw him point upward to the flag that flew above him.

Father Bourg replied with great spirit, waving his arms as he did so. I heard him use the words 'Washington,' 'England,' and 'King George.'

For a time Pierre Tomah was silent. Then his eyes wandered toward the wide sandy stretch of shore. In a few moments it was arranged that we should land, for a fuller discussion of the questions at issue.

Colonel Francklin and Father Bourg then proceeded to reason with the chiefs, most of whom showed themselves openly hostile. Finally Pierre Tomah said he could not decide without having first consulted the Divine Being. He then threw himself upon the sand and remained lying face downward, speechless and motionless for a long time. On rising he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Being to keep peace with King George and his people. For a time the decision was very unpopular with many of the warriors, but all finally yielded, and consented to accept the invitation of the lieutenant-governor, asking them to go to the mouth of the river.

The next morning, surrounded by the flotilla of canoes, we started on the return journey, reaching the trading-post and fort at the river's mouth after having been absent four days. Negotiations were at once entered into, and the terms of a treaty of peace were, after several days, finally agreed upon. When all had been arranged, the lieutenant-governor, representing King George, accompanied by Colonel Francklin, the commander of the fort, and several soldiers who formed a bodyguard, marched down from the fort to a meeting-place previously arranged. When the King's representative was seated, Pierre Tomah, the other chiefs, and many of the principal Indians who had gathered from all parts of Nova Scotia, came and solemnly knelt before him.

First they delivered up the flag received from General Washington, also the letter written by him to them, as well as the numerous presents he had sent, together with the treaty made with the Massachusetts government some weeks previously, binding them to send six hundred warriors into the field. They then took a solemn oath, 'to bear faith and true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Third; to take no part directly or indirectly against the King in the struggle with his rebellious subjects, and to return to their homes to engage in the usual pursuits of hunting and fishing in a peaceable and quiet manner.'

This declaration made, as a pledge that it should be kept, Pierre Tomah then gave into the hand of the lieutenant-governor a belt of wampum, while that gentleman, in turn, rising and walking along the line of kneeling chiefs, placed a decoration on the shoulder of each. He also presented the warriors with a large Union Jack. When handsome speeches had been made on both sides the chiefs performed a song and dance in honour of the great conference. The night was spent in feasting and rejoicing under the British flag.

The next day the warriors, accompanied by the loyal and clever Father Bourg, embarked for the return up river. In answer to the salute from the cannon on Fort Howe, they gave three huzzahs and an Indian whoop. The last sound we heard as they drew around a bend in the river above was Father Bourg, with his French accent, leading in singing, 'God Save the King.'

That night, after talking long with Duncan Hale of the clever manner in which we had outwitted Washington and his agents, I fell asleep and dreamed of the new home I was to build on the now peaceful St. John for my mother and sisters. One step at least had been taken: from being an enemy the Indian had been turned into a friend.

Chapter XI

Home-Making Begun

The treaty was not made a day too soon. Next morning I was awakened very early by loud shouting around the fort.

'The rebel vessels—the Machias men—the American pirates who were here before and plundered us, have come again,' I heard some one say to Colonel Francklin in the next room.

I sprang up, and ran to the single window that overlooked the harbour. Sweeping in on the flood tide I saw three New England schooners. From the mast of each flew flags similar to that we had received from the Indians. The decks were black with men.

I dressed hurriedly, and presented myself in Colonel Francklin's quarters. Mr. Simonds had entered before me, and was speaking. 'This,' he said, pointing to the schooners which had now come to anchor, 'is another part of a plan to seize the fort. One of our men heard that the Indians were to come down the river, and be met here by the schooners: we were then to be subjected to a double attack.'

Outside I could hear the quick, sharp commands of the captains and the tramp of the garrison preparing for action. In less than ten minutes I was at a loophole in the wall of the fort with a rifle, waiting the order to fire. Not far from me, similarly armed, was Duncan Hale. I noticed a look of triumphant glee upon his face, as he said to a soldier beside him—

'Now we'll pay them in their own coin for trying to stir up the Indians: then I've a score against these rebels on another account. They'd have hanged me once.'

'Hanged you? Where?'

'Just out of Boston—two days after the war began. They'd a rope round my neck.' The whole scene came back upon me vividly.

'What had you done?' the soldier asked.

'Done! I'd exposed some of their smuggling and treasonable actions. That was all.'

At that moment the movements of some on the schooners attracted my attention. 'They are getting their boats in shape,' I heard Colonel Francklin, who was looking through a glass, say to Lieutenant-Governor Hughs, who stood beside him, 'and appear to be preparing to come ashore.'

There was a brief consultation among the officers. Then the Major in command said: 'Every man ready to fire at them as they come over the sides.'

From that time onward moments seemed hours. Finally the painful strain was broken by the single word—

'Fire!'

There was a thunder of cannon and a sharp crash of musketry. When the smoke blew to one side, we could see the boats pulling back to the vessels. Looking through his glass, Colonel Francklin reported that a number of shots had taken effect.

As we reloaded the sound of quick-working anchor windlasses came in over the water and up the hill slope. The rebels who had been playing havoc on the river for so long had this time met a reception quite different from that which they had planned. The fort, well hidden by trees, had been built and garrisoned since their last trip, so their surprise could not have been much more complete.

When the ebb began to make they hoisted sail and drew off down the bay. On looking seaward at noon, nothing could be seen but the line of the Nova Scotia coast, pencilled low and irregular on the base of the sky.

It is probably not to be wondered at that, during the afternoon, we were somewhat high-spirited. All through the war the St. John settlers had been harassed, plundered, imprisoned or shot, by cruel and unscrupulous marauders from New England, who had never before been resisted, much less repulsed.

'Things are moving finely,' I heard Mr. Simonds tell Duncan Hale that evening. 'With the Indians quiet, and the pirates scared out, we can go on with our trade as usual. Till the war began we did well here. Since that we have had dreadful times—no business possible—but now I'm in hopes we can go on with the fishing, the lime-burning, and "masting" as usual.'

'Masting, Mr. Simonds,' I said. 'What is masting?'

'Were you not up the river? Did you not see the magnificent forests of pine and spruce? These make the best masts in the world. There is nothing in New England like them; and in places they positively overhang the rivers. Then there are thousands of trees. Masting on this river must become a great industry. The King's whole navy may be supplied from here. All we want is quiet Indians—and peace.'

'I understand,' I said.

'And what of the land?' Duncan Hale asked. 'Is it fit for farming?'

'As good as any in the world. The crops raised on this river before the war were wonderful. This is the richest part of the province.'

'And how may the land be obtained?' I said. 'To whom should one apply for a grant?' Mr. Simonds laughed heartily.

'Thinking of settling, young man?' he said.

'Yes,' I replied, a little resentment showing in my tone; 'my mother and two sisters are in Halifax. I mean to settle on this river and make a home for them.'

Duncan Hale joined Mr. Simonds in his laugh.

'You think I can't?' I said.

'Of course you can,' Mr. Simonds said in a moment; 'and I shall do my best to help you in any way I can. It's young fellows with push and spirit we want here now.' He looked at me more critically than he had done before. 'If things keep on improving, especially if the war ends, we shall be going into masting strong here next winter, and we'll be wanting a smart young fellow to look after accounts and act as clerk. How much schooling have you had?' Duncan Hale explained somewhat fully the work I had done, ending by saying he had considered me almost ready for Oxford.

'You might do us finely,' Mr. Simonds said, 'and as to you, sir,' turning to Duncan Hale, 'what think you of founding a school? A country as rich as this cannot but prosper. We shall yet have a city here. The war drags now toward a close; and even though England should, in spite of recent disasters, yet win, many will choose this country in preference to New England. If I and my partners mistake not, in five years this river valley will have thousands of inhabitants no matter what flag waves over it. Think over the question of a school, sir.' But customers were waiting, and Mr. Simonds left us to serve them.

For several days I remained about the fort. My duties as secretary to Colonel Francklin were light, so I roamed about the high, rocky country, sometimes alone, but oftener in company with Duncan Hale. The hopeful words of Mr. Simonds, the fine buoyancy of the spring air, the manner in which we had succeeded in making peace with the Indians, and in driving off the rebel Americans, all combined to make us surprisingly happy.

The fishermen in the harbour were making fabulous catches of valuable mackerel and other fish. The smaller streams near swarmed with salmon and huge trout. Here and there on our rambles giant moose faced us for a moment, then went crashing off into the forest. Vegetation was springing up with marvellous rapidity, while all day long the woods rang with the song and chatter of nesting birds. An exuberance of wild beauty and unrestrained life abounded everywhere.

In a little over a month our party, having accomplished the object for which it had been sent, set off for Halifax, not, however, before I had engaged to return and accept a position as clerk with Mr. Simonds later in the season.

We found a spirit of remarkable cheerfulness in Halifax. The soldiers had all sailed for New York. Many of the Loyalists, both men and women, had obtained situations. In several places, about the outskirts of the town, the more resolute ones, to whom lands had been granted, were boldly hewing their own way into the forest; and here and there, where the gaps on the slopes were widest in the broken ranks of the trees, small log houses were being built.

In a few days the matter of my own grant on the St. John had been fully arranged. Since I was not yet of age, the grant—it consisted of four hundred acres some miles up the river in what Mr. Simonds had told me was the most fertile part—was made out in my mother's name. My sister Caroline, who was still engaged with the Halifax family, was delighted with the prospect of having a new home of our own.

'Mother, won't it be grand?' she said one evening as we sat and talked together, 'simply grand. Four hundred acres—all ours—a big river in front and mountains behind. We'll be far richer than ever we were. When are we to go, Roger?'

'Not till next spring,' I said. 'David Elton has secured a lot alongside of ours; he is to do some chopping on both places this summer, then during the winter we shall prepare for building houses. Next spring the Government is to give us seed, tools, and a cow.'

A few days later, accompanied by Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale, now free from his former duties as secretary, along with David Elton and several other farmers not yet settled about Halifax, I bade a cheerful goodbye to my mother and sisters and again set off for the St. John.

It was the middle of August when we arrived.

'The Indians are acting finely up the river,' Mr. Simonds told us on our arrival, 'and as for the pirates, we have not seen hilt nor hair of them since they scuttled out of the harbour in the spring. That was a settler we gave them that day.'

'How's business been since?' I said.

'Fine, fine; looking up wonderfully ever since the peace with the Indians. Fishing couldn't be better, and as for the lime, it's turning out first class. We've almost all our plans made, too, for sending up the largest masting crew this fall we ever put in the woods. You are to go with them. You'll be quite near your own grant.'

A few days later, and before entering finally on my duties with the trading firm, with David Elton and some other farmers I went up the river to my grant secured in Halifax. Though I was little accustomed to the use of an axe, I felled the first tree myself. Before the second day had closed my hands were much blistered. However, I continued to work every day from early in the morning till late at night for two weeks.

This was the limit of time given me by Mr. Simonds. But before returning to the mouth of the river, I engaged with David Elton to spend at least a month in chopping upon my grant.

I then returned to the river's mouth, and a few weeks later found myself far in the forest with a crew of twenty men. First a camp of logs was built, then the huge pines were cut, partly hewn, and dragged to the river by means of oxen. Many spruce trees were cut for yards. Much of the work was extremely laborious. My duties as clerk were to see that the masts and yards were properly marked and measured when cut, to keep a record of the time each man worked, and to record the number of sticks, large and small, hauled to the river each day. Thus employed, I spent the winters until one spring, when on my way down the river, I learned that the war was over, that the rebels had won, that agents sent to the St. John had reported favourably on the land, and that five thousand Loyalists were expected from the New England colonies.

Chapter XII

Facing the Future

On arriving at the river's mouth, I found everything bustle and confusion. Mr. Simonds confirmed the reports I had heard on my way down. 'The settlers are coming in thousands,' he said enthusiastically, 'in thousands.'

The words were to be verified sooner than I expected. That afternoon—it was the 18th of May—I was sitting with Duncan Hale on a bluff near the fort looking off seaward. Duncan was telling me of the school he had succeeded in forming during the winter.

'I have thirteen pupils,' he said; 'the exact number of worshippers Doctor Canfield had at his first service in Mr. Simonds' house. But we are both determined not to be discouraged. If these late reports that were brought in by the schooner yesterday are true——'

He stopped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked seaward. 'Look, Roger!' he cried.

The day was fine, the air thin and clear. Looking straight over the harbour and directly across the bay, I saw the wavy line of the distant coast beyond. My eye followed this southerly, till its irregularity shaded into the steady, even line of the sea. On this, between the distant low shore and the bold horn of land that made the westerly side of the harbour, delicately but firmly etched on the sky, I made out the shape of at least a dozen ships. Duncan looked more critically.

'They're coming,' he said.

'They're coming,' I repeated.

For a full half-hour, speaking only now and then, till the vessels already in sight had grown large, till numerous others had emerged to stand like specks on the firm, far, high line of the sea, we sat and looked eagerly down the wide, sparkling bay.

After a time Duncan rose. 'They're coming,' he said once more. 'Let us go.'

We hurried down from the bluff to the little trading post at Portland Point, the bearers of great tidings. Three hours later the headmost vessels were at the rude piers, and the people were swarming ashore.

It became evident at a glance that all classes were represented among the newcomers. The soft-handed and fine-faced Englishman of culture; ladies richly dressed, who bore themselves as proudly as at court, came ashore rubbing shoulders with the rough, plain farmer men and women from the hillside farms of Vermont. Some carried bundles in which were all their possessions. Some bore peddler-like packs on their backs. Others rolled barrels before them or dumped rough boxes ashore; many women bore crying infants swathed in shawls. There were a few, of both men and women, cripples; many were old and stooped. There were some armless sleeves, and now and then came men who limped, or whose foreheads were bandaged. These had been in arms.

Almost immediately after landing the people began to scatter about. Some of the younger and more spirited ran gaily up the slope toward the fort, where flew the old familiar flag. Some slowly made their way along the rough bush-hung paths, over rocks and through thickets, until they found spots high enough to afford an outlook upon the surrounding country. It was not difficult for me to understand the look of disappointment which I saw creep over many faces.

The surroundings of the harbour were not attractive. Wave-beaten, weed-covered rocks, with the tide surging in and out among them, were everywhere; high, bare cliffs, a single mill, a patch of brown marsh, a score or less shanty-like buildings, a few Indian wigwams, the fort, and behind these, huddled close, bare in some spots and wooded in others, the unbroken ranks of the hills stretched away into the sunset. Many looked long on these, then turned seaward to see the ships that had brought them, sweeping off on the ebb of the tide that had borne them in. The surroundings were forbidding, but the captains of the vessels, by their speedy departure, had made going back impossible.

That evening I was talking with Duncan Hale in his small but comfortable quarters.

'I'll have no lack of pupils now,' he said. 'Doctor Canfield has this afternoon selected a site for a church.'

'How many people have come?' I asked.

'Almost three thousand; and there are many more to follow during the summer. It is well your grant is secured. The whole river front will be taken before fall, I hear. A new province is likely to be formed here north of the bay also. Halifax will be too far away when it comes to arranging the details of grants for all these people. See,' he said, waving his hand toward the many tents the people were putting up, 'we've a city already.'

It was only a few days after the landing of the Loyalists at St. John, that I set off for Halifax on one of Mr. Simonds' lime-laden schooners. The weather proved remarkably fine, and on the third day after sailing we were discharging our cargo in Halifax, where I discovered much interest manifested in what had been taking place north of the bay.

I found my mother particularly happy over having received a letter from my brother, who had joined the King's troops before my father's death. We had not heard from him for almost two years. He had learned of our flight to Nova Scotia from an officer who had returned to New York from Halifax.

My sisters were overjoyed when I told them that our new house would be ready for us—I had left the building of it largely to David Elton—on our arrival. They were very anxious to be off; and off we soon were. After an uneventful voyage we reached the St. John in safety.

During the two weeks of my absence many changes had taken place. There were scores of new buildings in process of erection. Everybody seemed happy and hopeful. The look of disappointment I had formerly seen on so many faces had completely disappeared. Duncan Hale was happy in the promise of a large new school building; Doctor Canfield already had the foundation of a Church well under way. Back on the hill slopes there were already numerous little gaps in the green of the forest. Vessels from New England were bringing in new Loyalists almost daily.

These invariably told the same sad stories of reckless cruelty. The end of the war and the declaration of peace had roused many to barbarities unheard of during the conflict. On the way up the river to my farm with my mother and sisters, I talked with an old man on the deck of the little schooner.

'The mobs,' he said, 'were bad enough at the beginning of the war, but weeks after peace was declared soldiers were found wreaking vengeance on our helpless people. I saw my own son, whose only crime was that he had fought for the King, tarred and feathered. As I sailed out of the harbour of Charleston—it is true, every word of it, as God is above me—I saw on looking backward the bodies of twenty-four Loyalists swinging from a row of gibbets on a single wharf. And there, too,'—his voice broke and tears came freely then, covering his face as if to hide the awful scene, he sobbed out, 'there, too, I had a son.'

No one spoke. I recalled the narrow escape of Duncan Hale, and could believe it all.

'They say General Washington was opposed to these cruelties,' the old man added after a time, raising his head.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a paper. 'Here is a copy of part of a letter written by him. It fell into the hands of one of our officers. The hand and signature were Washington's, so there can be no mistake. Read this, young man,' he said, thrusting the paper toward me. I opened it and read:—

'BOSTON, March 31, 1776.

'DEAR SIR,—All those who took upon themselves the style and title of Loyalists have shipped themselves off. One or two have done what a great number ought to have done long ago, committed suicide. By all accounts there never existed a more miserable set of beings than these wretched creatures now are.'

'It may be,' the old man said, as I returned the paper to him, 'that Washington was opposed to the scourging and hanging of our people, but that's his opinion of the Loyalists, anyway.'

Without further remark he rose, turned, and walked away. Though no one spoke—it had become a fixed rule among us to treat the war and those who had wronged us with silent disdain—I saw by the faces about me that there had been a violent stirring up of deep and bitter thoughts.'

We follow one current only of the times out of which the United States grew into strength and greatness. The siege of Boston was far advanced when General Gage wrote home, 'The rebels are shown not to be the disorderly rabble too many have supposed.' Not all at once did Washington bring into relief the finer qualities of his people. The struggle when it began covered a vast region, and chaos brooded over many districts. In the first division of men natural passion broke out in acts of violence. There was even a time of terror, and numbers were driven into the struggle who had little living interest in the things at stake. Gradually the true issues appeared, and the work of reconstruction went forward under different forms to the changes we now see.

It was wearing toward evening when the little schooner drew in toward shore, directly opposite a clearing in the middle of which stood a small log house. 'There is our home, mother,' I said, 'and there is David Elton waiting for us at the foot of the path by the river.'

My mother did not speak—she looked in silence. But a glance told me that she was seeing, not the little house of logs before us on the slope, but a fine, old colonial mansion with fluted Corinthian corners, with two spreading lindens in front, and wide, rich meadows about it.

In a short time all our possessions had been put ashore. Then the schooner, bearing others to their grants further up the river, swung away, and we turned to go up the path to our new but humble home.

'I did the best I could, madam,' David was explaining to my mother, a little later. 'It's hardly a place for fine ladies like you my wife was telling me, but with good lan' and plenty of lumber you needn't live here long.'

'This is all right; this is good enough for anybody to live a whole life in,' broke in Caroline, as she looked about the walls of wood, and up to the ceiling of bark. 'This is all fine. And, mother, just see the magnificent view from this door. Isn't it grand? The river, the hills, the woods!'

That night we slept soundly and well. The next day, with prayers over, I climbed with a Union Jack to the top of a tall tree, flung it out to the breeze, then came down and began—as all the thousands of Loyalists began—the long, hard fight with the wilderness.

Chapter XIII

The Governor's Peril

Several years had slipped away since the day of our arrival at our new home on the St. John, when, one day, I was standing watching the mail boat making her way slowly up the river.

Wonderful changes had taken place in the years since our coming. On both sides of the river, far as the eye could range from the door of our home, running from the water's edge away up into the dark, green timber, stretched the smooth, fertile fields. The log houses had given place to stately frame buildings. The request for a new province north of the bay, to be called New Brunswick, in spite of strong opposition from Halifax, had been granted by the Imperial Government and a governor sent out.

As the vessel drew toward the shore where I stood, I was surprised to make out the figure of Duncan Hale on her deck. I had not expected him. 'I came,' he was explaining a little later, 'to tell you that the new governor—Colonel Carleton—is to visit you. He has been overworked attending to the details of numerous grants, and wishes a holiday and fishing trip—a general rest before the elections and the meeting of the House.'

'The elections,' I said. 'What elections?'

'Didn't you hear there was to be an Assembly for the province, chosen by the people, in addition to the Council appointed by the King?'

'No,' I said. 'Are we to have representatives—a parliament?'

'That is part of the new constitution granted by the King. It is the intention of the Imperial Government to make New Brunswick one of the freest countries in the world.'

We were walking up the green slope from the river to the house. Duncan broke off. 'What a herd of cattle,' he said, 'and such magnificent fields!—and the house! Roger, is it possible that this is your house? I had heard of it, but had no idea it was so fine.'

Duncan was greeted with warm cordiality by my mother and my sisters, now both young women. But it was difficult for me to long refrain from telling the news I had heard. 'Mother, think of this—the new governor—Colonel Carleton—is coming up to see us, and to go hunting and fishing.'

'The new governor!'

'Yes, the governor. He'll be here to-morrow or next day.'

Elizabeth clapped her hands gleefully.

'The governor!' she exclaimed; 'a soldier, a fine gentleman just from England, like those in books.'

From my own farm a little later I wandered with Duncan to where David Elton worked in his field.

'Better off?' David said in answer to Duncan's question; 'of course I'm better off than I ever could have been in New England. I'll confess I thought it hard to be driven away as I was; but the lan' was poor an' rocky there. There was no prospect. There I had twenty acres; here I've two hundred. Then look at my stock, my lumber property, my marsh, my frame house here. He knows,' he said, pointing to me, 'the kin' of shanty I was living in, and would have died in, yonder. This is a better country. The war was the best thing that ever happened us. Let them have their rocky, poverty-stricken lan'; and to think of them now passin' laws that we'll be hanged "without benefit of clergy;" them are the words, aren't they? if we dare to go back. Go back,—back there!' He gave a loud, shrill laugh.

'I wouldn't go back if they made me president; an' I'd rather'—this dropping his voice to a reverent pitch—'I'd rather see any child in my family under the ground than under the new American flag. That,' he said, pointing to a Union Jack that flew from the top of a staff on his largest barn, 'that's the flag for me.'

I saw the colour come up into Duncan's old face. 'Well said,' he exclaimed; 'well and nobly spoken.' Then turning to me as we walked away, 'Are there many like that on the river?'

'We're all like that,' I said. 'Why shouldn't we be? David is just one of thousands.'

'It will be a right loyal representative you'll be sending to the new parliament from here then, won't it? Who is likely to be chosen?'

But my mind was on preparations for the coming of the governor. 'Wouldn't it be well to have the people gathered here to give the governor a reception when he lands?'

''Twould be capital, capital,' Duncan assented eagerly. 'He's not coming officially, but he'd be immensely pleased. Isn't the time too short, though?' he added.

'David would go for Father Bourg and the Indians—they're only a few miles up—I could see the French at Sainte Ann's; the people about here will come in swarms—at a word. It can be done,' I said.

Three days later the shore of the river in front of our home was lined for a full half-mile with a strangely mixed crowd of expectant people. The governor's vessel was in full view on the river—and coming slowly up. Father Bourg was there with a group of Indians; there were many French from Sainte Ann's; the Loyalists were present from the surrounding country in hundreds.

As the governor stepped ashore, a mighty cheer went up that seemed to set the very bed of the river quivering. The people saw in this representative, the King they loved, and for whom they had sacrificed. After a loyal address, a reply, and much good humour on all sides, the people dispersed.

With the governor had come Colonel Francklin and Doctor Canfield. They had tents and provisions sufficient for two weeks in the woods, and it was arranged that Duncan Hale, myself and two Indian guides should accompany them across the country by portage some twenty miles into the very heart of the forest, to a trout stream that ran at a sharp angle to the river, emptying into it some ten miles below. Our plan was to strike the stream about thirty miles from its mouth, and fish down to the main St. John. But not all plans are carried out.

We reached the stream in safety, and I sent the team back to the settlement. It was late June, and the whole forest seemed to throb with life. The governor was delighted. He was a lover of the woods, and insisted upon taking long rambles back from the stream, following the winding, logging roads. It was owing to one of these rambles that our original plan was not carried out.

It was our fourth day in the woods. We were camped some five miles below the point where we had reached the stream. A little after noon, the governor, having fished for some time, left us, and wandered into the forest. The middle of the afternoon, then evening, then dusk came—and passed,—and he did not return.

'I cautioned him,' I heard Colonel Francklin say to Doctor Canfield; 'telling him the woods were deceptive, also that there were many beasts of prey.'

He had scarcely spoken, when down over the forest, low but clear, came a long, wailing sound as of a spirit in distress. Instantly I saw Emile and Louis, our Indian guides, who bore the French baptismal names given them by Father Bourg, start, and hastily make the sign of the cross before their foreheads. A great fear overspread their faces; they trembled and went pale. And then there flashed into my mind the tales I had heard from the old inhabitants on the river, of the dread Loup-garou, or Indian devil as many called it. The low, clear, sound; its paralysing effect on the Indians; the time of day—just as evening was shading into night—the rise and fall of the long, fear-filling, distant wail; all these were exactly as described to me more than once by Father Bourg and others who knew the remoter woods of the province.

In the silence that followed the long-drawn cry, a feeling of chill fear crept over me. The Loup-garou, was the one wild beast of all the woods that unnerved the Indian. For him it was more evil spirit than beast. It went, according to the belief, through the tree tops like lightning: it seemed to come and go on the wind; from it there was no escape; the giant moose, the bear, the deer, in one case a farmer and his team of oxen far in the woods—I had heard the story told and retold on the river—all had been fallen upon and eaten in a single hour.

The memory of these tales was far from comforting. The governor was lost in the woods. Colonel Francklin, Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale were as ignorant of the forest as children. The Indians, my only hope, stood terrified. What was I to do?

At that moment, distant at first, then swelling louder and nearer, down through the trees now swaying in the gentle evening breeze, clear, weird, paralysing, there came again, the long-drawn, dreadful sound. There was no mistaking it; it was the Loup-garou.

Both Indians dropped on their knees, and turned their faces up to the stars. The sound came at intervals seven times; then it grew faint in the east, and we heard it no more.

Far into the night we fired off guns, shouted and kept torches burning on tree tops. But the governor did not come. Had the fierce Loup-garou, that dread, strange blend of panther, wolf, and devil, fallen upon him?

A keen feeling of responsibility pressed heavily upon me. In a sense the governor was my guest. He had come to this particular part of the forest at my suggestion. I knew what it would mean in Britain, I understood the derision that would be provoked in the United States, I felt how our new province would suffer, when it went abroad that our first governor had been eaten by a strange, half-devil fiend of the forest. And yet what was to be done?

The next day Emile and Louis were silent, morose and fearful; they could not be induced to go more than a few rods from the tent. They spent most of the time praying. All our efforts to trace out and bring back our distinguished fellow-sportsman proved unavailing.

When afternoon came, I made a proposal. 'You remain here,' I said, addressing Colonel Francklin, Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale, 'and I will go up the stream and call out the portage for assistance. Father Bourg and David Elton both know the woods. I shall get them to organise searching parties, so that we may scour the country. The governor must be found.'

'Very well,' Colonel Francklin said; then, after some further consulting, I was off.

On my arrival on the river, I first told Father Bourg of the governor being lost; then I referred to the strange sound, and to the action of Emile and Louis, and ended by saying I supposed we could look for no help from the Indians in the search. But the man who had won the Indians from Washington seven years before, who had kept them faithful to the King ever since, had power still.

'Wait,' he said.

He called the chiefs about him. He explained the situation of the governor, and commanded the Indians to go and find him. 'As for the Loup-garou,'—raising his voice and speaking with great energy, 'in the name of the Great Spirit I pronounce a curse upon him until the governor be found, and do now declare that during all the search he shall be powerless to hurt you.'

A great shout rose from the Indians. Then I hurried away.

Two days later there were fully three thousand men in the woods. The news of what had happened had run far up and far down the great river. The King's representative was lost in the woods, the wail of the Loup-garou had been heard. The whole province was stirred to unity in a common hope, and in a common fear. The hearts of French, of Indians, of Loyalists, of old and new inhabitants beat as one from the beginning of the great search.

On the fifth day after leaving the stream I was back again at our tent. I first met Duncan Hale. He was pale and anxious-looking. 'There is no word yet,' he said.

I sank down from exhaustion and disappointment. 'But the Indians are out,' I gasped—'and the French—everybody—men, even women.'

'The Indians!'

'The Indians,' I repeated. 'Father Bourg——'

But I could say no more.

Chapter XIV

Victory and Reward

It was three weeks later. There were fully five thousand people on the river in boats or canoes, and about our home. The great search was over; the governor had been found.

The honour of finding him had fallen upon two Indians and myself, who, on the tenth day of the search, had somewhat unexpectedly come upon him sitting on a knoll eating winter-green berries and fern-bulbs.

He was somewhat reduced in flesh and strength; but as the season was late June, and the weather had been dry and warm, he had not suffered materially. We conveyed him to the stream, where a large and comfortable canoe was secured; in this he had been safely brought down the stream, then up the river to our home; and now, three days after this, the morning of the day had arrived when the whole St. John was to give expression to its feelings of joy and gratitude over the finding of the governor, in a grand and loyal celebration of the event.

Before entering upon the search, Father Bourg had sent out to all parts of the province swift runners to call the Indians to the St. John. It so happened, that the day before that set for the celebration, many of the tribes from the remoter sections had just arrived. From the far Restigouche and Madawaska; from the Miramichi and the Richibucto; from the sandy reaches and pine-studded bluffs that jutted far into the broad Grand Lake; from Shediac, from the beautiful Kennebecassis and the still Neripeis; from Mispec and Lepreau; from Passamaquoddy and Bocabec, even from the Penobscot and the surrounding country far over the American line—from every corner of the land to which the news had run as on the wings of the wind—there came the Indians, expectant, anxious, interested, in swarms like bees that seek a new hive, in flocks like birds that fly north in spring.

Nor were the Indians all. The city had sent up its councillors, its merchants, its shipowners, its fine ladies who had graced courts in Britain or old colonial Boston, its handsome men, cold, dignified, and English in tone and manner. The French were also there from the Jemseg and Sainte Anne's; 'old inhabitants' of the river who had long since successfully striven to wipe off the stain of their treasonable correspondence with Washington and the government of Massachusetts; several 'refugees,' now anxious to show the loyalty they had smothered during the war for the sake of self; honest men who had foolishly been deluded into following Jonathan Eddy to an attack on old Fort Cumberland in '76—all these, as well as Loyalists of '83, in countless numbers, of all classes and conditions, were there on that great day in July.

As I stood on the high platform that had been erected in front of the house that the governor might more conveniently address the great throng, and looked out upon it all, my heart swelled with feelings of pride and satisfaction. Far above and below me, slipping between the rich meadows, I could follow the winding, glittering line of the river. The hills, rising belt on belt beyond, were throbbing with the warmth and life of the magnificent mid-summer day. The air was warm and sweet with clover bloom. The sun shone brilliantly and yet not oppressively. The fields of grain, just beginning to show full green heads; the wild gaiety of the flower-decked pastures and gardens; the neat, white homes; the slow moving flocks and herds on the hillsides near and far; the black mass of people in front; the hundreds of schooners and thousands of canoes on the river, winding and passing, bowing and saluting like figures in a dance, all gaily and variously decorated, made up a picture that would be difficult to surpass.

The forenoon of the day was spent in sports—in rowing, running, wrestling, shooting, and jumping—in all of which the Indians took prominent part. During all this part of the celebration, the governor moved among the people as an ordinary citizen. Dressed as an English gentleman, he moved easily and happily among the people. Now it was the French with whom he talked, now the farmer Loyalists; now he congratulated warmly a crew of Indians as they stepped from the winning canoe in the race; now he was relating part of his strange adventure in the woods to a group of interested and courtly ladies in the garden. Everywhere, in everything, he was the fine gentleman, the master of the art of manners, the representative of the finest traditions in both colony and kingdom; and it was not to be wondered at that the hearts of many Loyalists swelled larger that day, as they thought of the transplanting to the St. John, of a finer culture, directly from the homeland.

But the proceedings of the morning were to be quite overshadowed by the events of the afternoon. A vessel from St. John had brought up the governor's magnificent uniform. He was arrayed in this—no longer the citizen, but now the representative of the King—when in the afternoon, surrounded by his entire council and many distinguished Loyalists, he appeared upon the raised platform from which he was to speak. By the governor's special request, my mother and sisters, Father Bourg, Pierre Tomah (the Indian chief), I and the two Indians who had accompanied me at the fortunate ending of our great search in the forest, were taken to the platform. Then when the mighty cheer with which he was received had died in the throats of the mass of people that filled the field from the house to the river, the governor spoke.

'Subjects of the King,' he began, 'my friends and fellow-citizens, it is with feelings of just pride and thankfulness that I stand before you to-day. In the name of your King, whose representative I am, I bring you greeting.' A wave of applause swept the crowd. The people pressed closer; canoes on the river hurried shoreward.

The speaker went on—

'For many of you, around the name of King, there cluster, I am sure, associations that cannot but bring memories of your past—a past as noble as it is unparalleled in the history of the world.

'My friends and fellow-citizens, I am not unacquainted with what you have done and suffered; of your zeal and unflinching courage, of your devotion to your flag, your country, and your King; of your loyalty and sacrifices; of your honour and perseverance; of what you have done south of the line, nay, of what you have done here;—of these things I might say much, but I feel it is quite unnecessary that I should speak of them. Further, it is a task to which I am unequal. Again, your deeds are their own vindication; your acts are their own eulogy. You left a country rich and beautiful for one that seemed poor and forbidding. No sword was lifted up to drive you hence; driven only by the fire of your loyalty you came; this is your defence. What more is necessary?'

Passing then from the Loyalists, he commended the French for their refusal to assist the rebels; thanked the Indians for the fulfilment of all their treaty obligations; and declared forgiveness to all who, on the river, had been misguided into rebellion. Then, in a few words, he closed.

'And now, my friends and fellow-citizens, as I look abroad upon this magnificent river before me; as I behold these fields and flocks; as I look into your faces and read there your past, I read a future also. You are happy now; it is the King's good pleasure that you shall be happier still. In that distressed land to the south of us, though cannon no longer boom, and though the sword is sheathed, a great war still wages—the war of faction and political turmoil that must always exist where men are unscrupulous and where measures are unjust. Here peace shall flourish. If you will permit me a glimpse into the future years, I see rising a nation, new, pure-blooded, loyal, strong, the happiest land on earth.'

A wave of applause surged over the crowd and swept off to the canoes on the river.

'I wouldn't go back'—it was the loud, shrill voice of David Elton from the crowd that came up above the babel—'I wouldn't go back if they made me president. Look at my farm an' herd o' cattle, an'——' But the rest was lost in the ringing proposal, 'Three cheers for the governor!' It came from a score of throats at once. The cheer, like the applause, ran far out on the river over the swaying canoes.

But the governor had not done yet.

'Here in this magnificent valley'—he swung his hand all about—'here men, by the will of God and the King, shall for ever be free, free to worship as they will, free to govern as they choose, free in all things. See to it, my friends, that you prove not only worthy of your great past but worthy also of your great future.'

He turned and sat down.

Then, as when a volcano opens and pours out its lava and is relieved, the mighty throng burst into 'God Save the King.' Everybody sang. And this also helped in the laying of the foundations of a new province, of a new nation.

The next day, after the governor had departed for St. John, I was talking with Duncan Hale, who had remained. 'What a fine thing it was that the governor got lost?' Duncan said.

'Yes,' I said, 'it drew out the people's sympathy, binding them together, and showing them the governor in a new light.'

'But it did more than that.' Duncan was smiling. 'Didn't you know that last night the governor met a number of the leading people of the river, and that, after explaining to them that you had really saved his life by finding him in the woods, the people unanimously agreed to nominate and elect you their representative in the new Assembly of the province? Didn't you know that?'

'No,' I said. 'I don't believe it.'

'They did it though. You'll find out when the time comes in the fall. And that was not the only matter arranged last night.' I saw a look of mischievous interest grow on the old schoolmaster's face.

'What more, Duncan?' I said. 'Go on.'

'Did you see that tall, fine-looking young Englishman—the governor's secretary—who took the long walk through the meadows and by the river with Caroline in the evening?'

'Well?' I said.

'Well, you heard the governor make a prediction about this country; I am going to make a prediction about that young man and Caroline. They'll be married!' He came near and laid his hand on my arm. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that there is only a single life,—a man of seventy-four,—between that young man and a dukedom?'

I laughed heartily. Soon I was calling at the top of my voice, 'Caroline! Caroline!'

*****

In the late fall of the same year I was sitting one evening, with my mother and sisters, around an open fire. The elections were over—the report from the farthest parish had come in.

A great happiness sat on my mother's face. 'To think,' she said, 'that you were really elected, Roger, and at the head of the poll too.' I did not answer. Something about the room and the way we were seated had suggested to me another occasion, another evening, when, the day after the fight at Lexington, over eight years ago, in deep sorrow, we had gathered in the library of our former home at Cambridge, to make plans for the future. But I recalled my thoughts.

'Yes, mother,' I said, 'there is no doubt of it. I have been elected. Things have not turned out so badly for us after all. Indeed, I do not know a single one of our acquaintances who is not happier than before the war. Doctor Canfield's new church is quite magnificent, Duncan Hale's school is fast becoming a college; as for the farmers about, well—I don't think there is much danger of any of them wanting to go back to be buried "without benefit of clergy." What is it David Elton says? Oh, yes—"I wouldn't go back if they'd make me president." Poor David, the way he did storm and rage the day they put him in the mine with me. True, they were hard days those for both of us.'

'But the mine led to the parliament,' my mother said, smiling.

'Yes,' I said, 'there is no doubt but the war was a blessing to us. We were the real victors in the conflict. We are happier than we ever could have been without it.' As I said this, I looked very hard at Caroline. 'Aren't we, Carrie?' I said. The crimson mounted to her cheeks, and I was preparing to defend myself, when she was forced to join the rest of us in a merry laugh.

'Everything had its part to play—the war—the mine—and last of all even the Loup-garou,' I said, and we all laughed again.

'And just to think, mother,' Elizabeth put in a little later, 'a member of parliament in the family already, and'—her face was beaming with mischief and delight—'and a possible duchess also!'

THE END.

UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.