Roger Davis, Loyalist Part 11

I sank down from exhaustion and disappointment. 'But the Indians are out,' I gasped--'and the French--everybody--men, even women.'

'The Indians!'

'The Indians,' I repeated. 'Father Bourg----'

But I could say no more.

Chapter XIV

Victory and Reward

It was three weeks later. There were fully five thousand people on the river in boats or canoes, and about our home. The great search was over; the governor had been found.

The honour of finding him had fallen upon two Indians and myself, who, on the tenth day of the search, had somewhat unexpectedly come upon him sitting on a knoll eating winter-green berries and fern-bulbs.

He was somewhat reduced in flesh and strength; but as the season was late June, and the weather had been dry and warm, he had not suffered materially. We conveyed him to the stream, where a large and comfortable canoe was secured; in this he had been safely brought down the stream, then up the river to our home; and now, three days after this, the morning of the day had arrived when the whole St. John was to give expression to its feelings of joy and grat.i.tude over the finding of the governor, in a grand and loyal celebration of the event.

Before entering upon the search, Father Bourg had sent out to all parts of the province swift runners to call the Indians to the St. John. It so happened, that the day before that set for the celebration, many of the tribes from the remoter sections had just arrived. From the far Restigouche and Madawaska; from the Miramichi and the Richibucto; from the sandy reaches and pine-studded bluffs that jutted far into the broad Grand Lake; from Shediac, from the beautiful Kennebeca.s.sis and the still Neripeis; from Mispec and Lepreau; from Pa.s.samaquoddy and Bocabec, even from the Pen.o.bscot and the surrounding country far over the American line--from every corner of the land to which the news had run as on the wings of the wind--there came the Indians, expectant, anxious, interested, in swarms like bees that seek a new hive, in flocks like birds that fly north in spring.

Nor were the Indians all. The city had sent up its councillors, its merchants, its s.h.i.+powners, its fine ladies who had graced courts in Britain or old colonial Boston, its handsome men, cold, dignified, and English in tone and manner. The French were also there from the Jemseg and Sainte Anne's; 'old inhabitants' of the river who had long since successfully striven to wipe off the stain of their treasonable correspondence with Was.h.i.+ngton and the government of Ma.s.sachusetts; several 'refugees,' now anxious to show the loyalty they had smothered during the war for the sake of self; honest men who had foolishly been deluded into following Jonathan Eddy to an attack on old Fort c.u.mberland in '76--all these, as well as Loyalists of '83, in countless numbers, of all cla.s.ses and conditions, were there on that great day in July.

As I stood on the high platform that had been erected in front of the house that the governor might more conveniently address the great throng, and looked out upon it all, my heart swelled with feelings of pride and satisfaction. Far above and below me, slipping between the rich meadows, I could follow the winding, glittering line of the river.

The hills, rising belt on belt beyond, were throbbing with the warmth and life of the magnificent mid-summer day. The air was warm and sweet with clover bloom. The sun shone brilliantly and yet not oppressively.

The fields of grain, just beginning to show full green heads; the wild gaiety of the flower-decked pastures and gardens; the neat, white homes; the slow moving flocks and herds on the hillsides near and far; the black ma.s.s of people in front; the hundreds of schooners and thousands of canoes on the river, winding and pa.s.sing, bowing and saluting like figures in a dance, all gaily and variously decorated, made up a picture that would be difficult to surpa.s.s.

The forenoon of the day was spent in sports--in rowing, running, wrestling, shooting, and jumping--in all of which the Indians took prominent part. During all this part of the celebration, the governor moved among the people as an ordinary citizen. Dressed as an English gentleman, he moved easily and happily among the people. Now it was the French with whom he talked, now the farmer Loyalists; now he congratulated warmly a crew of Indians as they stepped from the winning canoe in the race; now he was relating part of his strange adventure in the woods to a group of interested and courtly ladies in the garden.

Everywhere, in everything, he was the fine gentleman, the master of the art of manners, the representative of the finest traditions in both colony and kingdom; and it was not to be wondered at that the hearts of many Loyalists swelled larger that day, as they thought of the transplanting to the St. John, of a finer culture, directly from the homeland.

But the proceedings of the morning were to be quite overshadowed by the events of the afternoon. A vessel from St. John had brought up the governor's magnificent uniform. He was arrayed in this--no longer the citizen, but now the representative of the King--when in the afternoon, surrounded by his entire council and many distinguished Loyalists, he appeared upon the raised platform from which he was to speak. By the governor's special request, my mother and sisters, Father Bourg, Pierre Tomah (the Indian chief), I and the two Indians who had accompanied me at the fortunate ending of our great search in the forest, were taken to the platform. Then when the mighty cheer with which he was received had died in the throats of the ma.s.s of people that filled the field from the house to the river, the governor spoke.

'Subjects of the King,' he began, 'my friends and fellow-citizens, it is with feelings of just pride and thankfulness that I stand before you to-day. In the name of your King, whose representative I am, I bring you greeting.' A wave of applause swept the crowd. The people pressed closer; canoes on the river hurried sh.o.r.eward.

The speaker went on--

'For many of you, around the name of King, there cl.u.s.ter, I am sure, a.s.sociations that cannot but bring memories of your past--a past as n.o.ble as it is unparalleled in the history of the world.

'My friends and fellow-citizens, I am not unacquainted with what you have done and suffered; of your zeal and unflinching courage, of your devotion to your flag, your country, and your King; of your loyalty and sacrifices; of your honour and perseverance; of what you have done south of the line, nay, of what you have done here;--of these things I might say much, but I feel it is quite unnecessary that I should speak of them. Further, it is a task to which I am unequal. Again, your deeds are their own vindication; your acts are their own eulogy. You left a country rich and beautiful for one that seemed poor and forbidding. No sword was lifted up to drive you hence; driven only by the fire of your loyalty you came; this is your defence. What more is necessary?'

Pa.s.sing then from the Loyalists, he commended the French for their refusal to a.s.sist the rebels; thanked the Indians for the fulfilment of all their treaty obligations; and declared forgiveness to all who, on the river, had been misguided into rebellion. Then, in a few words, he closed.

'And now, my friends and fellow-citizens, as I look abroad upon this magnificent river before me; as I behold these fields and flocks; as I look into your faces and read there your past, I read a future also.

You are happy now; it is the King's good pleasure that you shall be happier still. In that distressed land to the south of us, though cannon no longer boom, and though the sword is sheathed, a great war still wages--the war of faction and political turmoil that must always exist where men are unscrupulous and where measures are unjust. Here peace shall flourish. If you will permit me a glimpse into the future years, I see rising a nation, new, pure-blooded, loyal, strong, the happiest land on earth.'

A wave of applause surged over the crowd and swept off to the canoes on the river.

'I wouldn't go back'--it was the loud, shrill voice of David Elton from the crowd that came up above the babel--'I wouldn't go back if they made me president. Look at my farm an' herd o' cattle, an'----' But the rest was lost in the ringing proposal, 'Three cheers for the governor!' It came from a score of throats at once. The cheer, like the applause, ran far out on the river over the swaying canoes.

But the governor had not done yet.

'Here in this magnificent valley'--he swung his hand all about--'here men, by the will of G.o.d and the King, shall for ever be free, free to wors.h.i.+p as they will, free to govern as they choose, free in all things. See to it, my friends, that you prove not only worthy of your great past but worthy also of your great future.'

He turned and sat down.

Then, as when a volcano opens and pours out its lava and is relieved, the mighty throng burst into 'G.o.d Save the King.' Everybody sang. And this also helped in the laying of the foundations of a new province, of a new nation.

The next day, after the governor had departed for St. John, I was talking with Duncan Hale, who had remained. 'What a fine thing it was that the governor got lost?' Duncan said.

'Yes,' I said, 'it drew out the people's sympathy, binding them together, and showing them the governor in a new light.'

'But it did more than that.' Duncan was smiling. 'Didn't you know that last night the governor met a number of the leading people of the river, and that, after explaining to them that you had really saved his life by finding him in the woods, the people unanimously agreed to nominate and elect you their representative in the new a.s.sembly of the province? Didn't you know that?'

'No,' I said. 'I don't believe it.'

'They did it though. You'll find out when the time comes in the fall.

And that was not the only matter arranged last night.' I saw a look of mischievous interest grow on the old schoolmaster's face.

'What more, Duncan?' I said. 'Go on.'

'Did you see that tall, fine-looking young Englishman--the governor's secretary--who took the long walk through the meadows and by the river with Caroline in the evening?'

'Well?' I said.

'Well, you heard the governor make a prediction about this country; I am going to make a prediction about that young man and Caroline.

They'll be married!' He came near and laid his hand on my arm. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that there is only a single life,--a man of seventy-four,--between that young man and a dukedom?'

I laughed heartily. Soon I was calling at the top of my voice, 'Caroline! Caroline!'

In the late fall of the same year I was sitting one evening, with my mother and sisters, around an open fire. The elections were over--the report from the farthest parish had come in.

A great happiness sat on my mother's face. 'To think,' she said, 'that you were really elected, Roger, and at the head of the poll too.' I did not answer. Something about the room and the way we were seated had suggested to me another occasion, another evening, when, the day after the fight at Lexington, over eight years ago, in deep sorrow, we had gathered in the library of our former home at Cambridge, to make plans for the future. But I recalled my thoughts.

'Yes, mother,' I said, 'there is no doubt of it. I have been elected.

Things have not turned out so badly for us after all. Indeed, I do not know a single one of our acquaintances who is not happier than before the war. Doctor Canfield's new church is quite magnificent, Duncan Hale's school is fast becoming a college; as for the farmers about, well--I don't think there is much danger of any of them wanting to go back to be buried "without benefit of clergy." What is it David Elton says? Oh, yes--"I wouldn't go back if they'd make me president." Poor David, the way he did storm and rage the day they put him in the mine with me. True, they were hard days those for both of us.'

'But the mine led to the parliament,' my mother said, smiling.

'Yes,' I said, 'there is no doubt but the war was a blessing to us. We were the real victors in the conflict. We are happier than we ever could have been without it.' As I said this, I looked very hard at Caroline. 'Aren't we, Carrie?' I said. The crimson mounted to her cheeks, and I was preparing to defend myself, when she was forced to join the rest of us in a merry laugh.

'Everything had its part to play--the war--the mine--and last of all even the Loup-garou,' I said, and we all laughed again.

'And just to think, mother,' Elizabeth put in a little later, 'a member of parliament in the family already, and'--her face was beaming with mischief and delight--'and a possible d.u.c.h.ess also!'