Big Etienne had spoken within the mark in saying the child was well. His cheeks were dark with smoke and with forgetfulness of soap and water; but the red blood tinged them wholesomely. His long yellow hair was tangled, but it had the burnished resilience of health. His mouth, a bow of strength and sweetness,—his mother's mouth,—wore the scarlet of clean veins; and the great sea-green eyes with which he stirred my soul were unclouded by fear or sickness. Before our march brought us to the hills of Gaspereau, Philip had admitted me to his favour, ranking me, I think, almost as he did Xavier and Big Etienne. More than that I could not have dared to hope.
At sundown of the ninth of February, the seventeenth day of our march from Chignecto, we halted in a fir wood only three miles from the Gaspereau mouth. We lit no camp fires now, but supped cold, though heartily. We had been met the day before by messengers from Grand Pré, who told de Villiers the disposition of the English troops. With incredible carelessness they were scattered throughout the settlement. About one hundred and fifty, under Colonel Noble himself, were quartered along a narrow lane, which, running at right angles to the main street, climbed the hillside at the extreme west of the village. For my own part, though de Villiers' senior in military rank, I was but a volunteer in this expedition, and served the chief as a kind of informal aide-de-camp and counsellor.
Together we formed the plan of attack. It was resolved that one half our company, under de Villiers himself, should fall upon the isolated party in the lane and cut them to pieces. That left us but two hundred men with whom to engage the remaining three hundred and fifty of the New Englanders,—a daring venture, but I undertook to lead it. I undertook by no means to defeat them, however. I knew the fine mettle of these vinegar-faced New Englanders, but I swore (and kept my oath) that I would occupy them pleasantly till de Villiers, making an end of the other detachment, should come to my aid and clinch the victory.
The plan of attack thus settled, I turned my attention to Philip. Nigh at hand was a cottage where I was known,—where I believed the folk to be very kindly and honest. I told Big Etienne that we would put the child there to sleep, and after the battle take him to his mother at Canard.
"And, my brother," said I, laying my hand on his arm, and looking into his eyes with meaning, "let Xavier stay with him, for he will be afraid among strangers."
"Xavier must fight," replied the tall warrior. But his eyes shifted from mine, and there was indecision in his voice.
"Xavier is but a boy yet, my brother," I insisted. "And this is a night attack. It is no place for an untried boy. No glory, but great peril, for one who has not experience! For my sake bid Xavier stay with the child."
"You are right, brother. He shall stay," said the Indian.
And Xavier was not consulted. He stayed. But his was a face of sore disappointment when we left him with Philip at the cottage,—"to guard with your life, if need be!" said I, in going. And thus gave him a sense of responsibility and peril to cheer his bitter inaction.
It had been snowing all day, but lightly. After nightfall there blew up a fitful wind, now fierce, now breathless. At one moment the air would be thick with drift, and the great blasts would buffet us in the teeth. At another, there would seem to be in all the dim-glimmering world no movement and no breathing but our own. It was far past midnight when we came upon the hill-slope overlooking Grand Pré village; and the village was asleep. Not a light was visible save in one long row of cottages at the extreme east end, close by the water side. Thither, at our orders, the villagers had quietly withdrawn before midnight. The rash New England men lay sleeping, with apparently no guards set. If there were sentries, then the storm had driven them indoors.