CHAPTER I.
Late in the fall of 1817 seven families of immigrants settled on the banks of the St Lawrence in Dundee, close to the St Anicet line and nearly opposite the village of Lancaster. With one exception, they had come from the Isle of Skye, and they named their settlement after their Scottish birthplace, which was not altogether inappropriate, for the strip of territory they had taken possession of was so surrounded on the land side by swamps as to be, in a sense, an island. Apart from two or three of their number who knew a little English, they spoke Gaelic and Gaelic only. They brought naught beyond strong arms and great endurance of privation, for their training as crofters and fishermen was of little use in their new surroundings. An untrodden wilderness of forest hemmed in their shanties, which were placed on the bank of the St Lawrence, and on the other side of the great river, which here expands into a lake two miles in width, were their nearest neighbors, who had shown them the greatest kindness. Highlanders like themselves, the people on the Glengarry side of the river had taken a lively interest in the newcomers, had made bees to give them a fresh start in life; crossed over the river to show them how to fell trees, build shanties, and make potash, and when spring came had, with true Highland generosity, lent them seed and assisted in brushing it in or planting it amid the stumps of their clearings. In the black mould of the virgin soil the potatoes grew with an abundance that surprised the Skyemen, though their astonishment was greater at the luxuriance of the Indian corn, which they saw for the first time, and at the excellence of the wheat. When the latter was threshed the next step was to get it ground. Their nearest mill was at Williamstown, in the county of Glengarry, and to reach it involved a fatiguing journey. It was a bright morning in the first week of October, 1818, that one of the settlers placed a bag of wheat in a canoe to take to this mill. It was his first grist—the first in his life of wheat—and he looked at the bag, as he deposited it carefully in the bottom of the canoe, with satisfaction not unmingled with honest pride, which was shared in by his wife and children, who came to the water’s edge to see him off. Assisted by his son, a handsome young fellow, the paddles were dipped, and the boat was soon skimming lake St Francis, for so the expansion of the St Lawrence between Cornwall and Coteau is named. When half-way across they paused to rest, and as they viewed the noble sheet of water, embedded in a setting of bush whose bright colors glowed in the shimmering sunshine of a true Canadian fall day, they thought they had never seen anything more beautiful. “And the best of it is, Allan, that the water is fresh and not salt, and,” fixing his gaze on his shanty, which he could discern beneath the trees, “the land is our own, and there will be no rent to pay at Martinmas.”
When they got to the mill they found there were other customers before them, and having to wait their turn, it was nearly dark when their canoe passed out of the river Raisin into lake St Francis on their homeward journey. The sun had set behind a cloud, and the lake, though calm, had an oily appearance—both signs of a coming change. They had gone far enough to lose sight of the shore they had left, when a slight swell of the waters was noticed, and immediately afterwards the hollow sound of approaching wind. Both practised boatmen of the Old World, they knew what these signs meant. “Had we our old boat, Allan,” said the father, “I would not care for the squall that’s coming, but this cockle-shell will not stand a rough sea. It may soon blow over. Yonder I think I see the light your mother has set in the window to guide us. We will hurry before the waves get big.” Urged by their strong arms, the canoe flew over the lake, but swifter came the storm, and before many minutes a violent gust of wind, accompanied by pelting rain, burst upon them. Like all shallow sheets of fresh water, the lake was quickly beaten into a fury, and before long waves large enough not merely to toss the boat but to drench its occupants were coursing over it. The danger of swamping was imminent when the father’s skill averted it. Directing his son to stretch himself full length in the bottom of the canoe, using the bag of flour as a pillow, it steadied under the living ballast. Then, taking his place at one end, the father brought the other bow-on the wind and skilfully kept it, by vigorous use of the paddle, in a line with the waves, so that the canoe breasted and slipped over them, hardly shipping a drop of water. The fury of the squall soon passed, and was succeeded by a gale which blew steadily from the west. With that fine respect for parents which characterizes Highlanders, Allan had offered no suggestion, obediently doing what his father ordered. When he heard him say to himself “My God, we are lost!” he exclaimed: “No, father, the storm will blow by, and we will then make our way home this night yet.”
“Yes, the storm will blow over, but where will we be then? You forget, my poor boy, that the lake ends in rapids, and we are hurrying towards them as fast as wind and wave can drive us. Your mother and your sisters and brothers will have sore hearts tomorrow.”
Allan had not thought of the rapids. On their way from Montreal he had seen them, watched their foaming surges, and knew their canoe could not live a moment among them. The thought of death was bitter to him, and as the hours passed and they went drifting downwards, amid the storm and darkness, towards the jaws of the dreaded danger, his heart was filled with anguish, not alone for his mother, his brothers and sisters, but for her with whom he had secretly plighted troth.
“Allan, I will shout to you when I see the rapids. Jump and try to make the shore, for it may be near; do not trouble with me, or we both may be lost. Be a good lad to your mother, and tell her and your brothers and sisters my last thoughts were of them.”