Cameron of Lochiel
A day or two later Jules and Archie were tossing upon the Atlantic; and
at the end of two months, after a prosperous voyage, they reached the
shores of France.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BURNING OF THE SOUTH SHORE.
They came upon us in the night,
And brake my bower and slew my knight:
My servant a' for life did flee
And left us in the extremitie.
They slew my knight, to me so dear;
They slew my knight, and drove his gear;
The moon may set, the sun may rise,
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.
_Waverley._
The trees were once more clothed in their wonted green after the
passing of a northern winter. The woods and fields were enameled in a
thousand colors, and the birds were raising their cheerful voices to
greet the spring of the year 1759. All Nature smiled; only man seemed
sorrowful and cast down; and the laborer no more lifted his gay song,
and the greater portion of the lands lay fallow for lack of hands to
till them. A cloud hung over all New France, for the mother country, a
veritable step-mother, had abandoned her Canadian children. Left to its
own resources, the Government had called to arms every able-bodied man
to defend the colony against the invasion that menaced it. The English
had made vast preparations. Their fleet, consisting of twenty ships of
the line, ten frigates, and eighteen smaller vessels, accompanied by a
number of transports, and carrying eighteen thousand men, was ascending
the St. Lawrence under the command of General Wolfe; while two land
armies, yet more numerous, were moving to effect a junction under the
very walls of Quebec.
The whole adult population of Canada capable of bearing arms had
responded with ardor to their country's appeal; and there remained
at home none but the old and feeble, the women and the children. To
resist an army more numerous than the entire population of New France
the Canadians had little but the memory of past exploits, and of their
glorious victory at Carillon in the preceding year. Of what avail their
proved courage against an enemy so overpowering and sworn to their
defeat?
You have long been misunderstood, my brethren of old Canada! Most
cruelly have you been slandered. Honor to them who have lifted
your memory from the dust! Honor, a hundred times honor, to our
fellow-countryman, M. Garneau, who has rent the veil that covered
your exploits! Shame to us who, instead of searching the ancient and
glorious annals of our race, were content to bow before the reproach
that we were a conquered people! Shame to us who were almost ashamed
to call ourselves Canadians! Dreading to confess ourselves ignorant of
the history of Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, that of our own country
remained a sealed book to us.
Within the last few years there has come a glorious reaction. Every one
sets his hand to the work and the Canadian can now say with Francis I,
"All is lost save honor." I am far from believing, however, that all
is lost. The cession of Canada was, perhaps, a blessing in disguise;
for the horrors of '93 failed to touch this fortunate colony which
was protected by the flag of Britain. We have gathered new laurels,
fighting beneath the banner of England and twice has the colony been
saved to England by the courage of her new subjects. In Parliament, at
the bar, upon the field of battle, everywhere in his small sphere, the
French Canadian has proved himself inferior to none. For a century have
you struggled, O my countrymen, to preserve your nationality, and you
behold it yet intact. The future perhaps holds for you another century
of effort and struggle to guard it. Take heart and stand together,
fellow-countrymen.
Two detachments of the English army were disembarked at Rivière Ouelle,
at the beginning of June, '79. Some of the _habitants_ of the parish,
concealed in the skirts of the wood, received them with a sharp fire
and killed several men. The commander, exasperated at this loss,
resolved to take signal vengeance. The two detachments ascended the
river and encamped toward evening beside a brook which empties in Bay
Ste. Anne, southwest of where the college now stands. On the following
morning the commander ordered one of the companies to get ready to
march, and summoning the lieutenant gave him the following orders:
"Every house you come across belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen, set
fire to it. I will follow you a little later."
"But," said the young officer, who was a Scotchman, "must I burn the
dwellings of those who offer no resistance? They say there is no one
left in these houses except old men, women, and children."
"I think, sir," replied Major Montgomery, "that my orders are quite
clear. You will set fire to every house belonging to these dogs of
Frenchmen. I had forgotten your weakness for our enemies."
The young man bit his lips till they bled, and marched his men away.
The reader has, doubtless, recognized in this young man none other
than Archie de Lochiel, who, having made his peace with the British
Government, had recovered possession of his estates and had obtained
a lieutenancy in a regiment which he had himself recruited among the
Highlanders of his own clan. Archie marched off groaning and muttering
all the curses he could think of in English, Gaelic, and French. At the
first house where he stopped a young woman flung herself weeping at his
feet, crying piteously:
"Good sir, do not kill my poor old father. Do not shorten his days. He
has but a little while to live."
A little boy eleven or twelve years old grasped him about the knees and
exclaimed:
"Mister Englishman, do not kill grandpapa! If you only knew how good he
is!"
"Do not fear," said Archie, entering the house, "I have no orders to
kill old men, women, and children. They doubtless supposed," he added
bitterly, "that I should meet none such on my route."
Stretched on a bed of pain lay a decrepit old man.
"I have been a soldier all my life, monsieur," said he. "I do not fear
death, with whom I have been often face to face, but, in the name of
God, spare my daughter and her child!"
"They shall not be injured," replied Archie, with tears in his eyes;
"but if you are a soldier, you know that a soldier has to obey
orders. I am ordered to burn all the buildings on my line of march,
and I have to obey. Whither shall we move you, father? Listen," he
added, speaking close in the old man's ear. "Your grandson appears
active and intelligent. Let him get a horse and hasten to warn your
fellow-countrymen that I have to burn down all the houses on my road.
They will, perhaps, have time to save the most valuable of their
belongings."
"You are a good and brave young man!" cried the old man. "If you were
a Catholic I would give you my blessing; but thank you a thousand
times, thank you!"
"I am a Catholic," said Lochiel.
The old man raised himself with difficulty, lifted his eyes toward
heaven, spread his hands over Archie's bended head, and cried: "May God
bless you for this act of humanity! In the day of heavy affliction,
when you implore the pity of Heaven, may God take count of your
compassion toward your enemies and give ear to your prayers! Say to him
then with confidence in the sorest trials, 'I have the blessing of a
dying old man, my enemy.'"
The old man in his bed was hastily carried by the soldiers to an
adjoining wood, and when he resumed his march Lochiel had the
satisfaction of seeing the little boy mounted on a swift horse and
devouring the miles beneath him. Archie breathed more freely at the
sight.
The work of destruction went on; but from time to time, whenever he
reached the top of a hill, Archie had the satisfaction of seeing old
men, women, and children, loaded down with their possessions, taking
refuge in the neighboring woods. If he wept for their misfortunes,
he rejoiced in his heart that he had done everything in his power to
mitigate them.
All the houses of a portion of Rivière Ouelle, and of the parishes of
Ste. Anne and St. Roch, along the edge of the St. Lawrence, were by
this time in ashes, yet there came no order to cease from the work
of destruction. From time to time, on the contrary, Lochiel saw the
division of his superior officer, following in his rear, come to a halt
on a piece of rising ground, doubtless for the purpose of permitting
Major Montgomery to gloat over the results of his barbarous order.
The first house of St. Jean-Port-Joli was that of a rich _habitant_,
a sergeant in Captain D'Haberville's company. Frequently during his
vacations had Archie lunched at this house with Jules and his sister.
With what a pang he recalled the eager hospitality of these people.
On their arrival, Mother Dupont and her daughters used to run to the
dairy, the barn, the garden, for eggs, butter, cream, parsley, and
chervil, to make them pancakes and herb omelettes. Father Dupont and
his sons would hasten to put up the horses and give them a generous
measure of oats. While Mother Dupont was preparing the meal, the young
people would make a hasty toilet. Then they would get up a dance, and
skip merrily to the notes of the violin which screeched beneath the
old sergeant's bow. In spite of the remonstrances of Blanche, Jules
would turn everything upside down and tease everybody to death. He
would snatch the frying-pan from the hands of Mother Dupont, throw
his arm around her waist, and compel her, in spite of her struggles,
to dance with him; and these good people would shout with laughter
till one would think they could never get too much of the racket. All
these things Lochiel went over in the bitterness of his soul, and a
cold sweat broke out on his brow as he ordered the burning of this
hospitable home.
Almost all the houses in the first concession of St. Jean-Port-Joli
were by this time in ruins, yet there came no order to desist. About
sunset, however, coming to the little river Port Joli, a few arpents
from the D'Haberville place, Lochiel took it upon himself to halt his
company. He climbed the hillside, and there, in sight of the manor, he
waited; he waited like a criminal upon the scaffold, hoping against
hope that a reprieve may come at the last moment. His heart was big
with tender memories as he gazed upon the dwelling where for ten
years the exiled orphan had been received as a child of the house.
Sorrowfully he looked down on the silent village which had been so
full of life when last he saw it. Some pigeons fluttering over the
buildings and from time to time alighting on the roofs appeared to be
the only living creatures about the manor. Sighing, he repeated the
words of Ossian:
"'Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of
Morven. The wave tumbles alone in the coast. The silent beam of the sun
is on the field.'
"_Oh! Oui! Mes amis!_" cried Lochiel, in the language that he loved,
"_vos salons sont maintenant, hélas! deserts et silencieux!_ There is
no sound upon this hill which so lately was echoing your bright voices.
I hear only the ripples lapping upon the sand. One pale ray from the
setting sun is all that lights your meadows.
"What shall I do, kind Heaven, if the rage of the brute who commands me
is not yet sated? Should I refuse to obey him? Then am I dishonored. A
soldier can not in time of war refuse to carry out the orders of his
commander. This brute could have me shot upon the spot, and the shield
of the Camerons would be forever tarnished. Who would trouble himself
to see that justice was done to the memory of the soldier who chose
death rather than the stain of ingratitude? On the contrary, that which
was with me but an emotion of grateful remembrance, would certainly
be imputed to me for treason by this creature who hounds me with his
devilish malice."