“And now came brighter days. Richard had endured many hardships, and past through many temptations, but he had not lost his integrity. He had come home in attendance on an officer who had obtained a furlough. Not many months passed over before Richard expressed a wish to marry me, though my little fortune was gone, and ten years had not as you may suppose improved my beauty. Our mother said, our wedding-day was the happiest of her life. She did not long survive it. Before my husband rejoined his regiment she had gone to her rest. From that time till Richard was taken prisoner by the Americans, we have never been separated, and he has proved faithful and kind to me, and being, as he is, all the world to me who have never known other kindred but my little ones, it cannot seem strange to you, ma'am, that the world is a lonely place without him; and that I should be willing to take the help of your blessed children to get on my way to him.”
“Oh no indeed, my good friend,” said Mrs. Sackville, “I am delighted that my children have found one so worthy of their assistance; you may rest assured that we shall not part from you till we arrive at Quebec. Come now Edward and Julia to your berths—and dream of the ‘thousand isles,’ or Mrs. Barton, or what you will.” The children obeyed their mother, and doubtless had such sweet visions as hover about the pillow of youth, and health, and innocence.
Jemmy Chapman had not been an uninterested listener to this simple tale of patient virtue; and though Mrs. Barton had spoken so low that he had lost some parts of her narrative, he heard enough to touch his kind heart. As she rose from the bench near him, “Stop, stop, good woman,” said he, and he jerked some tears from off his cheeks; “it is not much that such as I can pity you, but a drop is something in a gill-glass, and (turning his pockets inside out, and collecting a half handful of small change,) I should not be my mother's son if I did not feel for a woman in distress, and so will you just take this which may help to raise a little breeze for you when you are becalmed. Nay, don't haul off, but take it, and remember the poor sailors in a stormy night. It is good luck to us to have a friend a-shore to speak a good word for us when we have no time to speak for ourselves.”
Jemmy's hearty kindness was irresistible, and Mrs. Barton received his gift, scarcely able to command her voice to utter her thanks.
The next morning found the steam-boat at the wharf at Ogdensburg. Edward undertook to settle with the captain for the passage of his protegées; but the captain would receive nothing, and persisted in declaring that he was amply compensated by Mrs. Barton's industry. The travellers parted from him and from our friend Jemmy with expressions of the esteem which their virtues even on this short acquaintance had not failed to produce; and then they proceeded to make arrangements for their passage down the St. Lawrence by chartering and provisioning a Durham boat.
While this was getting in readiness, Mrs. Sackville, whose curiosity, like that of a more celebrated traveller, ‘extended to all the works of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of past events,’ walked with her children to view a rare curiosity on our continent—an American antiquity. On a point of land at the junction of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, there is a broken stone wall, the remains of a French fortification. While they stood surveying with pleased attention this monument of the olden time, they were joined by a gentleman who appeared like them to have been attracted to the spot by curiosity. He took off his hat, bowed to Mrs. Sackville, and asked if he might take the liberty to inquire of her whether she resided at Ogdensburg.
When she replied in the negative, he begged her pardon, and said he had been extremely anxious to authenticate a traditionary story he had picked up in his journey through Canada, some of the events of which had been located at this place. He had hoped to find some record of it in Charlevoix's History, but he had searched in vain. Mrs. Sackville became in her turn the inquirer. She said she delighted in those traditionary tales, which, with the aid of a little fancy, reconstructed ruins, and enclosed within their walls living beings with affections and interests like our own; and she should hold herself very much obliged to the gentleman if he would enrich her with some interesting associations with this place. The stranger seemed highly gratified to have found so ready a sympathy in his feelings, and he related the following particulars.
“A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois who was before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord—her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.
“On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions natural enough at a time when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;—the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm—again she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were ‘household words’ with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders—she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, “I am my mother's body-guard you know.” Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events that followed rendered them memorable.