t is scarcely to be wondered at that, amid such events as were daily passing around her, poor Bibi had begun to despair of ever seeing her husband again. His avocations had often enough taken him away for a month or two, but more than a year had now elapsed without her even hearing of him. Proportionably great was her surprise and joy at his sudden re-appearance, and his happiness was not less real at seeing once more those he so dearly loved. What with Bibi's eager questions, and the prattle of the little ones, an hour or two had glided away swiftly enough, when Boulanger suddenly asked what had become of Amoahmeh.
Bibi shook her head. "She has been living here with us for some months," said she, "helping and comforting me as she only could do; but I am afraid that those horrid Indians have got hold of her again. Only this morning there was one lurking about here, and I am sure Amoahmeh must have seen him, for she has hardly spoken a word all day, and looked quite miserable. Just before you came she threw her arms around my neck, and said that very likely I should never see her again; and when I began to cry, and begged her to tell me what was the matter, she tried to cheer me by saying that she was only going to 'The Steps'—you know the place, up there on the Montmorency River. Then, before I could say another word, she was gone. In my joy at seeing you again I had forgotten all about it, that's a fact."
Boulanger's countenance fell, and after musing a while he said, "That's strange. Are there any Algonquins about here?"
"Oh, they are on the English side now," answered Bibi. "I heard only yesterday that a number of them, under a chief called White Eagle, had come into the English camp at Montmorency."
The Canadian started up. "And she has been so good to you whilst I have been away!" said he. "Put the little ones to bed, Bibi. I'll go up to the 'Steps' and see if I can find out what she is at."
"I wish you would," said Bibi. "I am quite anxious about her; but come back as soon as you can."
Boulanger kissed his wife and children, and then, shouldering his rifle, he quitted the cottage.
There are few spots near Quebec more picturesque than those so-called "Natural Steps" on the Montmorency River. Between almost perpendicular rocks, that look like huge stone towers, or the ruins of ancient walls, the little river foams and rushes along, over and between great flat slabs of stone, which here and there assume the shape of steps as regular as if the hand of man had fashioned them. The summits of the castellated banks are crowned with trees, and wherever their rocky steepness will allow of it, luxuriant shrubs grow in profusion from every crevice, and add another charm to the wild beauty of the scene.
Long had Amoahmeh stood alone on one of those rocky steps, pale and anxious, and evidently expecting some one to meet her there. He came at last, and White Eagle stood before her.
For a short time neither of them spoke; each seemed under some strange constraint. Perhaps the Indian could not shake off the awe with which his race regard all those who are, or have been, deprived of the light of reason. Amoahmeh had risen above such childish superstitions, but she seemed as though the chief possessed some hold over her which had power to subdue even her lofty spirit. She was the first to speak.
"White Eagle has bidden me come here. What would he have of me?"
"Can the daughter of War-thunder ask?" was the reply. "Did she not promise that if I brought back the young French brave from Fort Duquesne the wigwam of the chief of the Algonquins should remain no longer empty. He is safe in Quebec and among his friends; Amoahmeh will keep her promise."
"To whom did she give that promise? To a great chief who fought under the flag of France, ay, and one who professed to have forsaken the worship of Manitou for a holier faith. What is White Eagle now that he should ask her, or even wish her, to keep that promise?"
"He is not a girl that he should kneel at the bidding of a French priest," retorted the Indian, with evident irritation, "nor a child that he should let a squaw choose for him what war-path he shall tread. Is Amoahmeh a cheating French trader, who, when he has gotten the red skin's peltries that he bargained for, refuses to pay for them? She will keep faith."
"Faith!" replied Amoahmeh, indignantly. "How dares White Eagle even name the word with the scalps of the friends he swore to fight for to the death hanging at his belt? Amoahmeh at least will never desert those she loves."
"Ay," rejoined the chief, passionately, "her white soul only loves the pale faces; she hates the red skin now, and would fain be happy in the wigwam of the young French warrior."
"Why does the great chief talk like a whining child?" said she, at once regaining her wonted composure. "Amoahmeh does indeed love the French brave, but it is with a sister's affection for one without whom she never could have known the way to happiness here and hereafter. Beyond this he is nought to her. He has a bride already, and it was even for her sake that Amoahmeh gave the hasty, the wicked promise that White Eagle wrung from her as the price of his help. She will yet keep it, yes, even though her heart should break, if he still bids her do so; but what she has not promised she will not do at his bidding. She will not forsake her faith, nor will she rejoice when his warriors come back from the war-path with the spoils of slaughtered Frenchmen. Let White Eagle choose, but let him beware, lest when the Algonquins again see the face of the daughter of War-thunder, and hear her voice, they dig up again the hatchet that they buried at the false counsel of White Eagle, and shout once more the war-cry of 'France and King Louis!'"
"That they shall never do!" exclaimed the Indian fiercely. "Listen! Amoahmeh is free. Let her go her way, but not with the glad heart she hoped for. Manitou has even now given into White Eagle's hand the father and the kinswoman of the young French brave. Amoahmeh might have saved them. Now let her come with me and see them die."
With these words the Indian grasped his tomahawk and sprang up the rugged path. As he reached the top of the bank he turned and waved the weapon aloft, as if to beckon after him the amazed and agitated girl. At the same moment Boulanger started up from the underwood, and with one sweep of his clubbed rifle dashed the deadly hatchet from his hand, then with another stroke he laid the savage at his feet.
To pinion the prostrate Indian's arms with his belt was the work of a minute; another sufficed for Boulanger to tear a couple of withes from a bush, and bind him securely by the ankles to the nearest tree.
"So you have gone over to the English, have you?" said he sternly, as the half-stunned chief began to recover a little. "By rights, I suppose I ought to have shot you down without mercy; but luckily for you I have not quite forgotten our last meeting in the woods."
As the Canadian uttered these words the sharp rattle of half a dozen muskets was heard at a short distance down the river. Then followed shouts, mingled with the terrific war-whoop, at which the dark form of White Eagle seemed to quiver from head to foot. Then all became still again.
Boulanger, with his knee on the Indian's chest, had listened to the sounds with breathless anxiety.
"The red skins have had the worst of that," said he at last, as he arose and grasped his rifle; "but there is something going wrong, or we should have heard more of it. Follow me, Amoahmeh."
Forcing their way through the dense wood for three or four hundred yards along the crest of the bank, they came at length to an opening through which they heard the sound of voices, and passing through the gap they were soon looking down upon the scene below.
There on the border of the stream stood a group of Canadian militia leaning on their muskets. Two or three Indians lay dead upon the ground, and near them lay also a female figure, by the side of which, with his hands clasped and his head bowed down, stood the Baron de Valricour. There was another prostrate figure, that of a spare old man, to whom two persons seemed to be attending. One of them was Isidore, the other Boulanger did not recognise—it was the Marquis de Beaujardin.
The story was soon told. That afternoon Jacques Duboscq, who had been captured on his return to the "Pompadour" had been considerately sent on shore by the commander of the English sloop in order that he might inform the Baron de Valricour of the circumstances under which Madame de Valricour and the marquis had been put on shore at Cape Tourment two days before. On hastening to the military offices to see if any steps could be taken on behalf of their relatives, should they have fallen into the hands of the English, the baron and Isidore found that an Indian scout or spy had just come in with the intelligence that some Algonquins with three French prisoners had been seen that day encamped on the Montmorency River. In less than an hour Isidore and his uncle had set out for the spot, accompanied by a small body of picked men, and, guided by the scouts, they took the Indians completely by surprise, killing or dispersing them with a single volley. With instinctive ferocity, however, one of the savages had struck Madame de Valricour dead, whilst another singled out the marquis, as he supposed, and grievously wounded poor Perigord.
Two rude litters were soon made by some of the Canadians, on one of which they laid the body of Madame de Valricour, on the other they placed old Perigord, and the party then set out for the lines at Montmorency. They had not gone far before the attention of Amoahmeh and the Canadian was attracted by a sound like the scream of an eagle, which was immediately echoed from afar: "Yes, our friend yonder is calling to his eaglets," said Boulanger, "and they hear him; but we can laugh at them and him too now."
On the way the marquis kept by the side of his old servant, more than once expressing his grief at what had befallen him.
"Nay, monseigneur," replied Perigord, smiling in spite of the pain he was evidently enduring, "do not mind about me. It was fortunate that those stupid savages mistook me for my betters. Besides, have I not seen my dear young master once again?"
Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When they reached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughty baroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate. Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in the grave—not beyond it.
he Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but under circumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was with sorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As they passed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became aware that a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, and was to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of the attack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilst other vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on as Isidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle and excitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on the Montmorency lines before daybreak.
There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalm expected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great mass of the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town to a considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthily dropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon, now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove."
History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that which records this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it was achieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and rugged path—the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of the cliff itself—Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of between four and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile from the ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had led out his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.
At first the French outflanked and forced back the English left, but with a timely reinforcement Townsend stopped their further progress. There was, at the same time, some desultory fighting on Wolfe's right, which extended to the lofty banks of the St. Lawrence, but the decisive conflict took place in the centre, in which Montcalm had placed his few battalions of French regulars. These advanced with the greatest gallantry, inflicting serious loss on the English by their rapid and well-sustained fire, which, however, was not returned, for Wolfe was riding along the line encouraging his men, and forbidding a single shot until the word should be given. On came the French with loud shouts, advancing to within forty or fifty paces of the British line; then with one tremendous ringing volley the fate of the day was decided. The hitherto serried and continuous line of the French veterans was simply broken up into scattered and shapeless fragments, which nevertheless still tried to advance. They were, however, met with a charge which soon completed their discomfiture, and the battle was won. De Bougainville indeed subsequently came up and threatened an attack in the rear, but the bold front made by the English compelled him to draw off again without any serious attempt to molest the victors.
The story of Wolfe's last words, and of his death whilst the shout of victory was sounding in his ears, is an oft-told tale, and needs not to be repeated here. He had received three wounds, of which the last was fatal. Carleton and Monckton, too, had been severely wounded, and Townsend had to take the command. Nor had the French superior officers been more fortunate. De Senezergues and St. Ours were both struck down, and at last Montcalm himself was mortally wounded; but he refused to quit the field until he had seen the shattered remnants of his army safe within the protecting walls of Quebec.
Montcalm has been accused of infatuation in risking a battle on the open plain; but the charge savours perhaps of being wise after the event. With his customary candour he certainly declared, after the battle, that with such troops as the English had proved themselves he would have defeated thrice the number of such as he had himself commanded. But it was only on that day that he had learned how English troops could fight, and he might well be excused if he remembered how he had repulsed them at Ticonderoga. His force, moreover, though chiefly consisting of Canadian militia, on whom he could place no great reliance, was numerically double that of Wolfe, whilst the new position of the enemy on the plain before Quebec cut off all his resources, and any hope of succour from France was out of the question. A battle won might end the campaign for that year with honour, and his chivalrous spirit would not decline the challenge. He fought, and though he was defeated, friend and foe alike admired him and did him justice. After passing the night in religious exercises, he died on the day after the battle, and was buried in the garden of the Ursuline Convent, in a cavity made by the bursting of a shell—a fitting grave for such a warrior.
Almost the last to retreat within the ramparts of the citadel were a score or so of veterans belonging to Isidore's former regiment. Not having yet received any regular appointment, he had fought with his old corps as a volunteer all the morning, and most of the officers being by that time killed or wounded, he had tacitly assumed the command of this little band. They had nearly reached the gate of St. Louis when they once more heard the terrible war-whoop close in their rear, and as they faced about for the last time, a body of Indians came sweeping towards them from some broken ground near the river's bank.
"Stand fast, men, and give those fellows a parting salute," cried Isidore. The order was obeyed, and with such effect that the Indians stopped in their wild onset, and then fell back a little. One alone held his ground. He was their chief, and by the tuft of snowy feathers and ribbons that fluttered above his head he was recognised at once by Isidore and by Boulanger, who stood by his side, all begrimed with dust and smoke, and clutching in his hand the barrel of his broken rifle. It was White Eagle.
For a few moments faint and dizzy with loss of blood, for he had been wounded without knowing it, Isidore felt a strange half-conscious stupor come over him. Was this all a dream about the horrible massacre at Fort William Henry? There before him stood the very savage who had struck him down; there were the shouts, the shrieks of wounded men; there, too, was the dark figure darting swiftly past and placing itself right in front of him.
"Fire, fire! Be quick!" shouted Boulanger, as the Indian raised his rifle. It sent forth a flash and a puff of smoke, but the report was lost in the discharge of a dozen French muskets, which stretched the Indian dead upon the grass.
It was too late. With a loud cry Amoahmeh dropped down at Isidore's feet. Flinging away his sword he knelt beside her, and raised her up a little. She gave him one grateful parting look, murmuring faintly, "Amoahmeh knows where—it was you who told her." Then she closed her eyes, and Isidore knew that her brave and loving spirit had fled.
Meanwhile the Indians, daunted by the stern reception they had met with, and by the loss of their chief, had fallen back in disorder, and the little troop that had discomfited them withdrew within the gates. Isidore and Boulanger were the last to enter, the Canadian bearing in his arms, as tenderly as if it had been one of his own sleeping children, the lifeless body of Amoahmeh.
our days later de Ramsey surrendered the fortress of Quebec, and with the fall of this last stronghold the conquest of New France was virtually accomplished. The French, under the Chevalier de Levi, did indeed commence operations in the ensuing spring, and they even attempted to retake Quebec, mustering about ten thousand men on the scene of the previous year's engagement. Murray, with a force amounting to less than one-third of that number, came out and gave them battle, but was worsted, and had to take shelter behind his ramparts; nevertheless the enemy subsequently withdrew without effecting anything beyond that barren success. The great drama, however, was drawing to a close. Amherst descending with his army from Oswego, Murray ascending from Quebec, and Haviland approaching from Lake Champlain, converged upon Montreal; and so admirably was the plan of the campaign carried out that during the first week of September, 1760, an aggregate force of sixteen thousand men made their appearance before the defenceless city. On the 8th of that month Governor de Vaudreuil signed a capitulation, not in respect of Montreal only, but of the whole colony. Its inhabitants passed, for the most part with little reluctance, under the British sceptre. France had impoverished and disgusted them by misgovernment, and by over-government had destroyed in them all energy and self-reliance. Thus Canada became a British dependency, and there was no longer a New France. Under the terms of the capitulation all French troops with their officers, as well as the civil authorities with their families, were removed to France in British vessels; and thus it came about that those whose story has been told in these pages found themselves again in their native home.
The grant of a seigneury on the banks of the St. Lawrence previous to the cession of the colony had restored the decayed fortunes of the Baron de Valricour, and he subsequently returned thither with Clotilde, whose descendants hold a high position amongst the old French noblesse in Canada to this day.
In the course of a few years the marquis died, and Isidore and Marguerite came into possession of the fair domains of Beaujardin. It may be added that whilst there was not one amongst all the tenants and dependants on the estate who did not regret the loss of their old master, they soon found reason to acknowledge that they were not less fortunate in his successor.
THE END.
BERTIE AND HIS SISTER. A Domestic Story. With Three page Woodcuts.
DICK DARLINGTON AT HOME AND ABROAD. With Three page Woodcuts.
GRETCHEN'S TROUBLES. A Story of German Peasant Life (for Girls). With Three page Woodcuts.
JUANITA. A Peninsular Story for Young People. With Three page Woodcuts.
KITTY BLIGH'S BIRTHDAY. With Three page Woodcuts.
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THREE MILLSTONES (THE). A Story of the British Legion. With One page Woodcut.
WRECK OF THE OSPREY (THE). With Three page Illustrations.
Abbotsnid.
By C. E. M., Author of "Adam Gorlake's Will," "The Valley Mill," &c. With Four page Illustrations.
Adam Gorlake's Will.
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Adventurous Voyage of the "Polly," and other Yarns.
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Against the Stream.
The Story of an heroic age in England. By the Author of "The Schönberg-Cotta Family," &c. With Eight page Illustrations.
A "Leal Light Heart."
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An Idle Farthing.
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A New Beginning.
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Brave Men of Eyam (The);
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Christabel:
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Chryssie's Hero.
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Conquering and to Conquer.
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Dick Darlington, at Home and Abroad.
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Dodo: an Ugly Little Boy; or, Handsome is that Handsome does.
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Fire-flies and Mosquitoes.
By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. With Four page Illustrations.
Fortunes of Hassan (The);
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Frontier Fort (The);
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Great Captain (The).
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"Great Orion" (The).
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Harry's Discipline.
By LAURA M. LANE, Author of "A Character," &c. With Three page Illustrations.
Hasselaers (The).
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Her Will and Her Way, and other Stories.
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Heroes of the Arctic and their Adventures (The).
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Hide and Seek.
A Story of the New Forest in 1647. By Mrs. FRANK COOPER, Author of "The Hasselaers," &c. With Three page Illustrations.
Jungle Jack;
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King's Marden.
By the Author of "Our Valley," &c. With Four page Illustrations.
King's Warrant (The).
A Tale of Old and New France. By A. H. ENGELBACH, Author of "Lionel's Revenge," &c. With Three page Illustrations.
Kitty Bligh's Birthday.
By A. H. ENGELBACH, Author of "Juanita," &c. With Three page Illustrations.
Lapsed, not Lost.
A Story of Roman Carthage. By the Author of "The Schönberg-Cotta Family," &c.
Lettice.
By F. FRANKFORT MOORE, Author of "Will's Voyages." With Four page Woodcuts.
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Mike.
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Slavers and Cruisers.
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