The Raid from Beausejour; and How the Carter Boys Lifted the Mortgage Part 7

It was indeed so. The bridge was laid, the column was hastening across.

A bugle rang out the signal for retreat, and the fire from the bushes ceased. In a moment the Acadian force had dissolved, scattering like a cloud of mist before the sun. Pierre found himself, with a handful of his comrades, speeding back to the fort. Others sought their proper rendezvous. There was nothing for the English to chase, so they kept their column unbroken. As Pierre entered the fort he saw the enemy establis.h.i.+ng themselves in the uplands, about a mile and a half from Beausejour.

When night fell the heavens were lit up with a glare that carried terror to the women and children on Isle au Tantramar. Vergor had set fire to the chapel, and to all the houses of Beausejour that might shelter an approach to the ramparts. "Alas," cried the unhappy mother Lecorbeau to the children about her, "we are once more homeless, without a roof to shelter us!" and she and all the women broke into loud lamentations.

The children, however, seemed rather to enjoy the scene, and Edie told an interested audience about the great blaze there was, and how red the sky looked, the night her dear Pierre carried her away from Kenneticook.

For several days the English made no further advance, and to Pierre and his fellow-Acadians in the fort the suspense became very trying.

The regulars took the delay most philosophically, seeming content to wait just as long as the enemy would permit them. Pierre began to wish he was with one of the guerilla parties outside, for these were busy all the time, making little raids, cutting off foraging parties, skirmis.h.i.+ng with pickets, and retreating nimbly to the hills whenever attacked in force. At length there came a change. A battalion of New Englanders, about five hundred strong, advanced to within easy range of the fort, and occupied a stony ridge well adapted for their purpose.

A braggart among the French officers, one Vannes by name, begged to be allowed to sally forth with a couple of hundred men and rout the audacious provincials. Vergor sanctioned the enterprise, and the boaster marched proudly forth with his company. Arriving in front of the New Englanders he astounded the latter, and supplied his comrades in the fort with food for endless mirth, by facing the right about and leading his shame-faced files quietly back to Beausejour. Pierre was profoundly thankful to the old sergeant for having dissuaded him from joining in the sally. Covering Vannes's humiliation the fort opened a determined fire, which after a time disabled one of the small mortars which the a.s.sailants had placed in position. Gradually the English brought up the rest of their guns, and on the following day a sharp artillery duel was carried on between the fort and the ridge.

Within the ramparts things went but ill, and Pierre became despondent as his eyes were opened to the almost universal corruption about him.

Enlightened by the shrewd comments of the old sergeant, the quiet penetration of his father's glance, which saw everything, he soon realized that fraud and self-seeking were become the ruling impulse in Beausejour. "Like master, like man" was a proverb which he saw daily fulfilled. Vergor thought more of robbing than of serving his country, and from him his subordinates took their cue. Le Loutre, with his fiery fanaticism, went up, by contrast, in the estimation of the honest-hearted boy. As the siege dragged on some of the Acadians became homesick, or anxious about their families. These begged leave to go home; which was of course refused. Others quietly went without asking. An air of hopelessness stole over the garrison, which was deepened to despair when news came from Louisburg that no help could be expected from that quarter, the town being strictly blockaded by the English.

At length, in an ign.o.ble way, came the crisis. In one of the two vaulted chambers of masonry which were dignified with the t.i.tle of "bombproofs,"

a party of French officers, with a captive English lieutenant, were sitting at breakfast. A sh.e.l.l from the English mortars dropped through the ceiling, exploded, and killed seven of the company. Vergor, with other officers and Le Loutre, was in the second bombproof. His martial spirit was confounded at the thought that the one retreat might turn out to be no more "bomb-proof" than the other. Most of his subordinate officers shared his feelings, and in a few minutes, to the pleasant astonishment of the English, and in spite of the furious protests of Le Loutre and of two or three officers who were not lost to all sense of manhood, a white flag was hoisted on Beausejour. The firing straightway ceased, on both sides, and an officer was sent forth to negotiate a capitulation.

Pierre threw down his musket, and looked at his father, who stood watching the proceedings with a smile of grim contempt. Then he turned to the sergeant, who was smoking philosophically.

"Is _this_ the best France can do?" he cried, in a sharp voice.

"The English do certainly show to rather the better advantage,"

interposed Lecorbeau; but the old sergeant hastened to answer, in a tone of sober grief:

"You must'nt judge _la belle France_ by the men she has been sending out to Canada and Acadie these late years, my Pierre. These are the creatures of Bigot, the notorious. It is he and they that are dragging our honor in the dust!"

"Well," exclaimed Pierre, "I shall stay and see this thing through; but as there is no more fighting to be done, you, father, had better go and take care of mother and the children. There is nothing to be gained, but a good deal to be risked by staying here and being taken prisoner.

The English may not think much of the powers of compulsion of a man that can't fight any better than our commandant"

"You're right, my boy," said Lecorbeau, cheerfully. "My situation just now is a delicate one, to say the least of it. Well, good-bye for the present. By this time to-morrow, if all goes as expeditiously as it has. .h.i.therto, we shall meet in our own cabin again."

With these words Lecorbeau walked coolly forth, on the side of the fort opposite to the besiegers, and strolled across the marshes toward Isle au Tantramar. Two or three more, who were in the same awkward position as Lecorbeau, proceeded to follow his example. The rest, considering that for them there was now no danger, the fighting being done, stayed to see the end, and to pick up what they could in the way of spoils. As for Le Loutre, realizing that his cause was lost and his neck in the utmost jeopardy, he hid himself in a skillful disguise and fled in haste for Quebec.

The same evening, at seven o'clock, the garrison marched out of Beausejour with the honors of war; whereupon a body of New Englanders marched in, hoisted the flag of England, and fired a royal salute from the ramparts of the fort. By the terms of the capitulation the garrison was to be sent at once to Louisburg, and those Acadians who in taking part in the defense had violated their oath of allegiance to King George were to be pardoned as having done it under compulsion. All such matters of detail having been arranged satisfactorily, Vergor gave a grand dinner to the English and French officers in the stronghold of which his cowardice had robbed his country. The fort was rechristened "Fort c.u.mberland," and the curiously a.s.sorted guests all joined most cordially in drinking to the new t.i.tle.

On the following day Lecorbeau brought his wife and family back to the cottage under the willows, and Pierre was reunited to his beloved "pet.i.te." Isle au Tantramar was soon deserted, for the families whose homes at Beausejour had just been burnt returned to camp amid the ashes and erected rude temporary shelters. They were all overjoyed at the leniency of the English; but a blow more terrible than any that had yet befallen them was hanging over this most unhappy people.

Among the English officers encamped at Beausejour was the slim young lieutenant who had led the band of avengers at Kenneticook. He spoke French; he was interested in the Acadian people; and he moved about among them inquiring into their minds and troubles. The cabin under the willows, almost the only house left standing in Beausejour village, at once attracted him, and he sauntered down the hill to visit it.

The household was in a bustle getting things once more to rights; and a group of children played chattering about the low, red, ocher-washed door. As the lieutenant approached, Lecorbeau came forth to meet and greet him. The Englishman was just on the point of grasping the Acadian's outstretched hand, when a shrill cry of "Uncle Willie" rang in his ears, and he found one of the children clinging to him rapturously. For an instant he was utterly bewildered, gazing down on the sunburned fair little face upturned to his. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed the child to his heart, exclaiming pa.s.sionately, "My Edie, my darling!" To Lecorbeau, and to his wife and Pierre, who now appeared, the scene was clear in an instant; and a weight of misery rolled down upon the heart of Pierre as he realized that now he should lose the little one he loved so well.

For a few moments the child and her new-found uncle were entirely absorbed in each other. But presently the little one looked around and pointed to Pierre.

"Here's my Pierre!" she explained in her quaint French--"and there's papa Lecorbeau, and mamma Lecorbeau, and there's little Jacques, and Bibi, and Vergie, and Tiste. Won't you come and live with us, too?"

Her uncle covered her face anew with his kisses. "My darling," he said, "you will come with me to Halifax, to mamma!"

"And leave Pierre?" she cried, her eyes filling. "I can't leave my Pierre, who saved me from the cruel Indians."

This recalled the young man's thoughts to the mystery of the little one's presence at Beausejour. Lecorbeau gave him a bench, and sitting down beside him told the story, while Edie sat with one hand in her uncle's clasp and the other in that of Pierre. The young Englishman was deeply moved. Having heard all, and questioned of the matter minutely, he rose and shook Pierre by the hand, thanking him in few words, indeed, but in a voice that spoke his emotion. Then he poured out his grat.i.tude to Lecorbeau and his wife for their goodness, to this child of their foes; and little by little he gathered the Acadian's feelings toward the English, and the part he had played throughout.

At length he said:

"Can you allow me to quarter myself here for the present? I cannot take Edie into the camp, and she would not be willing if I could. I see from her love for you how truly kind she has found you. I want to be with the little one as much as possible; and, moreover, my presence here may prove of use to you in the near future."

The significance of these last words Lecorbeau did not care to question, but after a glance at his wife, who looked dumfounded at the proposition, he said:

"You may well realize, monsieur, that with this small cabin and this large family we can give you but poor accommodation. But such as it is, you are more than welcome to it. Your coming will be to us an honor and a pleasure, and a most valued protection."

The lieutenant at once took up his abode in Lecorbeau's cabin. When, a few weeks later, the first scenes were enacted in the tragedy known as the "Expulsion of the Acadians," the friends.h.i.+p of the young lieutenant and of Edie stood Lecorbeau in good stead. This storm which scattered to the four winds the remnant of the Acadians, pa.s.sed harmlessly over the cabin beneath the willows of Beausejour. When Acadie was once more quiet, and Edie and her uncle went to Halifax, Lecorbeau added fertile acres to his farm; while Pierre accompanied his "pet.i.te" to the city, where his own abilities, and the lieutenant's steadfast friends.h.i.+p, won him advancement and success.

HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE MORTGAGE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "When he reached the door he knocked imperiously."--_See page 159_.]

CHAPTER I.

CATCHING A TARTAR.

As long as they could remember, the roaring flow and rippling ebb of the great tides had been the most conspicuous and companionable sounds in the ears of Will and Ted Carter. The deep, red channel of the creek that swept past their house to meet the Tantramar, a half mile further on, was marked on the old maps, dating from the days of Acadian occupation, by the name of the Pet.i.t Canard. But to the boys, as to all the villagers of quiet Frosty Hollow, it was known as "the Crick."

To "the Crick" the Carters owed their little farm. Mrs. Carter was a sea captain's widow, living with her two boys, Will and Ted, in a small yellow cottage on the crest of a green hill by the water.

Behind the cottage, framing the barn and the garden and the orchard, and cutting off the north wind, was a thick grove of half-grown fir trees. From the water, however, these were scarcely visible, and the yellow house twinkled against the broad blue of the sky like the golden eye of a great forget-me-not.

I have said that the Carters owed their little farm to the creek. That is to say, their farm was made up chiefly of marsh, or diked meadow, which had been slowly deposited by the waters of the creek at high tide, then captured and broken into the service of man by the aid of long, imprisoned ramparts of sodded clay. This marsh land was inexhaustibly fertile, deep with gra.s.s, purple in patches with vetch blossoms, pink and crimson, along the ditches with beds of wild roses. Outside the dikes the tawny current of the creek clamored almost ceaselessly, quiet only for a little while at high water. When the tide was low, or nearly so, the creek was a s.h.i.+ning, slippery, red gash, twisting hither and thither through stretches of red-brown, sun-cracked flats, whitened here and there with deposited salt. Where the creek joined the Tantramar, its parent stream, the abyss of coppery and gleaming ooze revealed at ebb tide made a picture never to be forgotten; for the tidal Tantramar does not conform to conventional ideas of what a river should be.

Had the creek been their only creditor the Carters would have been fortunate. As it was, the little farm was mortgaged up to its full value.

When Captain Carter died of yellow fever on the voyage home from Brazil, he left the family little besides the farm. To be sure, there was a share in the s.h.i.+p, besides; but this Mrs. Carter made haste to sell, though s.h.i.+pping was at the time away down, and she realized almost nothing from the sale. Had she held on to the property a year longer she would have found herself almost comfortable, for there came a sudden activity in the carrying trade, and s.h.i.+powners made their fortunes rapidly.

But Mrs. Carter cared little for business considerations where a sentiment was concerned; and being descended from one of the oldest and most distinguished families of the country, she had a lofty confidence that the country owed her a living, and would be at pains to meet the obligation. In this confidence she was sadly disappointed; and so it came about that, while Will and Ted were yet but small lads, the farm was mortgaged to Mr. Israel Hand, who greatly desired to add it to his own adjoining property.

It happened one summer afternoon, when Will was nearly eighteen years of age, and Ted fifteen, that the boys were raking hay in the meadow, while Mr. Israel Hand was toiling up the long hill that led from Frosty Hollow to the yellow cottage. The figure of Mr. Hand was hidden from the boys' view by the dense foliage of the maples and birch trees bordering the road. Toward the top of the hill, however, the line of trees was broken; and in the gap towered a superb elm. Immediately beneath the elm, half inclosed in a luxuriant thicket of cinnamon, rose, and clematis, stood an inviting rustic seat which commanded a view of the marshes, and the windings of the Tantramar, and the far-off waters of the bay, and the historic heights of ramparted Beausejour.

Toward the seat beneath the elm tree Ted kept casting eager but furtive glances. This presently attracted Will's attention.

"What have you, young one, been up to now?" he queried, in a tone half amused and half rebuking.

Ted's eyes sparkled mischievously.