Part 11 (1/2)

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.