It did not take the English officers and William Parkmann long to settle down in their new home; the life was so free and easy. Before they had been a week at Marshwood they knew and were known of the whole colony, and were immense favourites. The dangers which surrounded the colonists were becoming daily more and more evident. Scarcely a week passed but what news came of villages burnt and sacked, and of the atrocious cruelties perpetrated by the Indians. So far Marshwood had been unmolested, owing, it was generally supposed, to Roger’s renown and the number of scouts or Rangers always about. Roger began at once to put the new recruits into training, taking them out into the forests, and organising mimic fights. Brigadier Howe, as he chose to be called, though Roger knew full well that his real title and rank were Brigadier-General Lord Howe, was in right good earnest, and applied himself thoroughly to the study of forest warfare. His companions followed his example; they had their hair cut close like the Rangers, dressed themselves after the same fashion, wearing leggings to protect them from the briers. As soon as Roger considered them sufficiently trained, they accompanied him on expeditions to the frontier; upon which occasions each man had to carry in his knapsack thirty pounds of meat,—this being the only food they had to depend upon, and which they cooked themselves,—one blanket, and a bearskin.
Before the middle of November the snow lay thick upon the ground, and the rivers were icebound. A great stillness seemed to descend upon the land, and the Rangers dispersed to their homes, with the exception of a certain number of scouts, who remained on guard. Roger was mostly with them, and Brigadier Howe was always in his company. A great feeling of sympathy grew up between the two men. Different as their characters were, yet they understood each other, Howe’s gentle, energetic nature tending to soften and hold in check the violence and strong-headedness of his companion. Roger learned to admire the indomitable will which enabled this delicate nobleman, accustomed to all the luxury and refinement of civilised life, to face the greatest hardships willingly, and without a murmur. Nothing held him back; where Roger went he went, always bright and cheery, seeming to have no thought of self. There was an undercurrent running through his life which Roger was slow to recognise, because he was unwilling to do so—namely, an unobtrusive piety.
He made no religious boast, he was seldom heard to speak of those things which were in very truth nearest his heart, but his daily life bore testimony to his faith. A small pocket Bible was his never-failing companion, and often by the camp fire, when his comrades lay sleeping, wrapped in their blankets and bearskins, Roger watched him draw it forth, and by the flickering flame peruse the sacred volume.
Whenever it was possible, he coaxed Roger to cease warfare on the Sabbath Day, and to return to Marshwood, often accomplishing the homeward journey under very adverse circumstances and with great fatigue; but nevertheless he was sure to be in his place in chapel, an attentive listener to John Cleveland’s exhortations. The minister was his most devoted admirer, and declared to Nathaniel that the Englishman’s example had worked a wonderful change on the young men in the colony. Only Roger held aloof in sombre pride. Yet, notwithstanding the coming danger which threatened them all, and which at any moment might overtake them, it was impossible to check the natural enjoyment which sprang up, the result of youth and health. The clear atmosphere was so exhilarating that the young people could not remain within doors. Sleighing parties, tobogganing, skating on the lakes and rivers, occupied every spare minute of the short winter day. Shouts of merry laughter rang out on the frosty air. All the inhabitants of the village would turn out on fine afternoons, making their way in snowshoes down to the icebound river, and there disporting themselves, sometimes till the moon and stars shone out; and then back home to the warm kitchens and the hospitable boards.
“We are having a fine time of it. I never had a finer in my life,” said young William Parkmann, as he flew over the ice side by side with Marie Langlade.
“Yes, we always have a good time in winter,” she answered; “but this year it seems better than usual,” and she looked shyly at her companion.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he answered. “I shall never forget how happy I have been; and perhaps, Marie, when this war is over, if God spare my life, I may come back and ask something of you!” and as he skated close up to her, he slipped his arm into hers, and so bore her on even more rapidly than before. There was joy for both of them at that moment in the mere fact of living. The sun shone brightly on the glistening snow, which covered alike the hills and plains, weighing down the branches of the forest trees; but to William Parkmann Marie’s eyes shone brighter than the rays of the sun, and her voice was very sweet, though somewhat serious, as she answered,—
“When the war is over, William Parkmann—not till then—must you ask or I answer you aught.”
“Let it be so,” he replied; and they skated on in happy silence, dreams of a bright future dancing before their eyes. They were so young—
“Hope at the helm
And pleasure at the prow”—