Cameron of Lochiel
After one moment of hesitation, Captain D'Haberville threw himself into
the stranger's arms, crying:
"You here, my dear Saint-Luc! The sight of my bitterest enemy could not
cause me such dismay. Speak; and tell us that all our relations and
friends who took passage in the Auguste are buried in the sea, and that
you, the one survivor, are come to bring us the sad tidings!"
The silence of M. Saint-Luc de Lacorne, the grief stamped upon his
countenance, confirmed Captain D'Haberville's worst fears.
"Accursed be the tyrant," cried the captain, "who in the bitterness of
his hate against the French sent so many good men to their death in an
old ship utterly unseaworthy!"
"Instead of cursing your enemies," said M. de Saint-Luc in a hoarse
voice, "thank God that you and your family got leave to remain in the
colony two years longer. And now, a glass of brandy and a little soup.
I have been so nearly starved that my stomach refuses solid food. Let
me also take a little rest before telling you a story which will call
forth many tears."
In the neighborhood of half an hour, for this man of iron needed but
little rest to recover his strength, M. de Saint-Luc began as follows:
"In spite of the English governor's impatience to banish from New
France those who had so valiantly defended her, the authorities had
placed at our disposal only two ships, which were found utterly
insufficient for the great number of French and Canadians who were
waiting to sail. I pointed this out to General Murray, and proposed to
buy one at my own expense. This he would not hear, but two days later
he placed at our disposal the ship Auguste, hastily commissioned for
the purpose. By a payment of five hundred Spanish piasters, I obtained
from the English captain the exclusive use of his cabin for myself and
family.
"I then pointed out to General Murray the danger to which we should be
exposed at this stormy season with a captain not familiar with the St.
Lawrence. I offered to hire and pay for a pilot myself. His answer was,
that we would have the same chance as the rest; but he ended by sending
a little vessel to pilot us clear of the river.
"We were all in deep dejection, a prey to the gloomiest forebodings,
when we raised anchor on the 15th of October last. Many of us, forced
to sell our properties at a ruinous sacrifice, had but a future of
poverty to look forward to in the mother country. Speeding at first
before a favorable wind, with swelling hearts we saw the cherished and
familiar scenes fade out behind us and fall below the horizon.
"I will not detail the many perils we underwent before the great
calamity out of which but myself and six others escaped alive. On the
16th we came within an ace of shipwreck on the Isle aux Coudres, after
the loss of our main anchor.
"On the 4th of November we were struck by a terrific gale, which lasted
two days, and which we weathered with difficulty. On the 7th a fire
broke out three times in the cook's galley, and was extinguished only
after a desperate struggle. I shall not endeavor to paint the scenes on
shipboard while it seemed likely we should be burned in the open sea.
"On the 11th we escaped as by a miracle from being dashed to pieces on
a rock off Isle Royale.
"From the 13th to the 15th we were driven blindly before a hurricane,
not knowing where we were. As many of us as could do so were obliged
to fill the places of the crew, who were so exhausted with their
incessant labors that they had taken refuge in their hammocks, from
which neither bribes, threats, nor blows could drive them. Our foremast
was gone, our tattered sails could no longer be either hoisted or
furled, and, as a last resort, the mate proposed that we should run the
ship ashore. It was a desperate expedient. The fatal moment arrived.
The captain and mate looked at me despairingly, clasping their hands. I
understood but too well the silent speech of these men inured to peril.
We made for land to starboard, where we saw the mouth of a little river
which might perhaps prove navigable. I explained our situation to all
the passengers, concealing nothing. Then what entreaties and what vows
to the Almighty! But, alas! in vain the vows, and of no avail the
prayers!
"Who can paint the madness of the waves? Our masts seemed to touch
the sky and then vanish in the deep. A frightful shock announced that
the ship had grounded. We cut away the masts and cordage to lighten
her, but the waves rolled her on her side. We were stranded about
five hundred feet from shore, in a little sandy bay at the mouth of
the river in which we had hoped to find refuge. As the ship was now
leaking at every joint, the passengers rushed upon deck; and some even,
thinking themselves within reach of safety, threw themselves into the
sea and perished miserably.
"At this moment Madame de Tillac appeared on deck, holding her little
one in her arms, her long hair and her garments streaming about her in
confusion. She was the picture of hopeless anguish. She fell on her
knees. Then, perceiving me, she cried in a piercing voice: 'My dear
friend, must we die like this?'
"I was running to her aid, when a giant wave thundered down upon the
deck and swept her into the sea."
"My poor friend," sobbed Madame D'Haberville; "companion of my
childhood, my foster-sister, nourished at the same breast with me? They
tried to persuade me that it was merely my overwrought imagination that
made me see you in my sleep, that 17th of November! I saw you weeping
on the deck of the Auguste, your baby in your arms; and I saw you swept
into the waves. I was not deceived, my sister! You came to bid me
farewell before vanishing to heaven with the angel that nestled in your
bosom!"
After a pause, M. de Lacorne went on:
"Crew and passengers were lashed to the shrouds, to escape the waves
which dashed ceaselessly over the doomed ship, every moment carrying
away new victims. The ship carried but two small boats, one of
which was already crushed into splinters. The remaining one, a mere
cockle-shell, was launched, and a servant named Étienne threw himself
into it, followed by the captain and two or three others. I did not
perceive this till one of my children, whom I held in my arms, while
the other was tied to my belt, cried eagerly: 'Save us now, father;
the boat is going away!' I seized the rope fiercely. At this moment a
terrific wave struck us, and hurled me headlong into the boat. The same
wave which saved my life swept away my children."
At this point the narrator's voice failed him, and his listeners sobbed
aloud. Regaining his self-control, he continued:
"Although under the lee of the ship, the boat was almost swamped by
another wave; and the next hurled us landward. In what seemed but a few
seconds, in that awful and stupefying tumult, we found ourselves dashed
upon the sand. Above the uproar we heard the heart-rending shrieks of
those who remained upon the ship.
"Of the seven men thus miraculously thrown upon the unknown shore,
I was the only one capable of action. I had just seen my brother and
my little ones snatched away, and I strove to keep down my agony of
soul by striving for the safety of my fellow-sufferers. I succeeded,
after a time, in bringing the captain back to consciousness. The others
were numbed with cold, for an icy rain was falling in torrents. Not
wishing to lose sight of the ship, I handed them my flint and steel
and powder-horn, telling them to light a fire at the edge of the wood.
In this they failed signally; scarcely had they strength enough to
come and tell me of their failure, so weak were they and numbed with
cold. After many attempts, I succeeded in making a fire just in time
to save their lives. Then I returned to the beach, hoping to save some
poor creatures who might be washed ashore. I remained there from three
in the afternoon till six o'clock in the evening, when the ship went
to pieces. Never, never shall I forget the sight of the dead bodies
stretched upon the sand, more than a hundred in number, many of them
with legs or arms broken, their faces battered out of all recognition.
"Half stupefied by the calamity, we passed a sleepless and silent
night, and on the morning of the 16th we betook ourselves again to the
fatal shore. We passed the day in bestowing upon the dead such sad last
rites as were possible to such poor wretches as we.
"On the morrow we left this desert and inhospitable coast, and
directed our course into the interior. The winter had set in in all
its severity. We marched through snow up to our knees. Sometimes we
came to deep and rapid rivers, which forced us to make long _détours_.
My companions were so enfeebled by fatigue and famine that sometimes
I had to retrace my steps more than once to get their bundles, which
they had been compelled to drop. Their courage was utterly broken; and
sometimes I had to stop and make them rude moccasins to cover their
bleeding feet.
"Thus we dragged ourselves on, or rather I dragged them in tow, for
neither courage nor strength once failed me till at length, on the 4th
of December, we met two Indians. Imagine if you can the delirious joy
of my companions, who for the last few days had been looking forward to
death itself as a welcome release from their sufferings! These Indians
did not recognize me at first, so much was I changed by what I had
gone through, and by the long beard which had covered my face. Once I
did their tribe a great service; and you know that these natives never
forget a benefit. They welcomed me with delight. We were saved. Then I
learned that we were on the island of Cape Breton, about thirty leagues
from Louisbourg.
"I made haste to leave my companions at the first Acadian settlement,
where I knew they would be nursed back to health. I was eager to return
to Quebec, that I might be the first to inform General Murray of our
shipwreck. I need not detail to you the incidents of the journey.
Suffice to say that with the greatest peril I crossed from Cape Breton
to the main-land in a birch canoe, through the sweeping ice cakes; and
that I have covered now about five hundred leagues on my snow-shoes.
I have had to change my guides very frequently, for after eight days'
marching with me, Indian and Acadian alike find themselves utterly used
up."
After this story, the family passed the greater part of the night in
bewailing the fate of their friends and kinsfolk, the victims of a
barbarous decree.
M. de Saint-Luc allowed himself but a few hours rest, so eager was he
to present himself before Murray at Quebec as a living protest against
the vindictive cruelty which had sent to their death so many brave
soldiers, so many unoffending women and little ones. It had been
thought that Murray's unreasoning bitterness was due to the fact that
he could not forget his defeat of the previous year.
"Do you know, D'Haberville," said M. de Saint-Luc at breakfast, "who
was the friend so strong with Murray as to obtain you your two years'
respite? Do you know to whom you owe to-day the life which you would
probably have lost in our shipwreck?"
"No," said Captain D'Haberville. "I have no idea what friend we can
have so powerful. But whoever he is, never shall I forget the debt of
gratitude I owe him."
"Well, my friend, it is the young Scotchman Archibald de Lochiel to
whom you owe this eternal gratitude."
"I have commanded," almost shouted Captain D'Haberville, "that the name
of this viper, whom I warmed in my bosom, should never be pronounced in
my presence." And the captain's great black eyes shot fire.
"I dare flatter myself," said M. de Saint-Luc, "that this command
hardly extends to me. I am your friend from childhood, your brother in
arms, and I know all the obligations which bind us mutually. I know