“Here, you leave that alone: that’s not our flag, and if you string it up, we’ll string you up, bagosh!” he roared.
Ferrol’s heavy walking-stick was in his right hand. “Let go my arm-quick!” he said quietly.
He was no coward, and these people were, and he knew it. The habitant drew back.
“Get off the platform,” he said with quiet menace.
He turned quickly to the crowd, for some had sprung towards the platform to pull him off. Raising his voice, he said:
“Stand back, and hear what I’ve got to say. You’re a hundred to one. You can probably kill me; but before you do that I shall kill three or four of you. I’ve had to do with rioters before. You little handful of people here—little more than half a million—imagine that you can defeat thirty-five millions, with an army of half a million, a hundred battle-ships, ten thousand cannon and a million rifles. Come now, don’t be fools. The Governor alone up there in Montreal has enough men to drive you all into the hills of Maine in a week. You think you’ve got the start of Colborne? Why, he has known every movement of Papineau and your rebels for the last two months. You can bluster and riot to-day, but look out for to-morrow. I am the only Englishman here among you. Kill me; but watch what your end will be! For every hair of my head there will be one less habitant in this province. You haul down the British flag, and string up your tricolour in this British village while there is one Britisher to say, ‘Put up that flag again!’—You fools!”
He suddenly gave the rope a pull, and the flag ran up half-way; but as he did so a stone was thrown. It flew past his head, grazing his temple. A sharp point lacerated the flesh, and the blood flowed down his cheek. He ran the flag up to its full height, swiftly knotted the cord and put his back against the pole. Grasping his stick he prepared himself for an attack.
“Mind what I say,” he cried; “the first man that comes will get what for!”
There was a commotion in the crowd; consternation and dismay behind Ferrol, and excitement and anger in front of him. Three men were pushing their way through to him. Two of them were armed. They reached the platform and mounted it. It was the Regimental Surgeon and two British soldiers. The Regimental Surgeon held a paper in his hand.
“I have here,” he said to the crowd, “a proclamation by Sir John Colborne. The rebels have been defeated at three points, and half of the men from Bonaventure who joined Papineau have been killed. The ringleader, Nicolas Lavilette, when found, will be put on trial for his life. Now, disperse to your homes, or every man of you will be arrested and tried by court-martial.”