University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE MARCH.

After resting three hours beneath the hospitable
roof of the peasant, the wind having subsided,
and the calm, clear beauty of the night inviting
them to continue their journey, the travellers
once more set forward. The horses, refreshed,
moved freely over the road, the bells that hung
on their harness jingling merrily, and infusing that
sort of spirit into their motions which the music of
the drum and fife is known to produce in a body of
soldiers. The young officer and his fair companion
seemed also to have imbibed new life and
animation, and, yielding to the exhilarating influence
of the time, conversed cheerfully together,
the merry laugh of Eugenie often ringing above
the music of the merry bells. Ohguesse, too,
judging from his frequent ejaculatory addresses to
his steeds, appeared to have been thawed into a
more social mood by the hospitality of the peasants'

board and hearth; and altogether, with high spirits,
the carriolers glided swiftly on their way, lighted
by the stars shining with that sparkling brilliancy
which they emit only in winter.

They had been about half an hour on their road
when the northern lights suddenly appeared with
extraordinary brilliancy, dimming the stars, and
diffusing a soft glow like that of twilight over the
earth. With an exclamation of delight, Eugenie
drew the attention of her companion to the beautiful
changes their corruscations presented. At
one moment they would assume the form of a waving
spear of pale flame; then, shooting upward
and expanding till they overreached the zenith, become
a broad belt of light, which slowly faded
into the sky. The next moment, sheets of light,
of various colours and degrees of brilliancy, floated
across the heavens, and broke into masses,
that appeared like golden banners and plumes
of warriors waving and dancing along the horizon.
These gradually disappeared, assuming a thousand
fantastic shapes before they entirely vanished, but
were instantly replaced by gorgeous beams of purple
and golden light, radiating from a bright central
spot, and spreading in a vast resplendent star
over half the firmament; while columns of pale,
beautiful light rose perpendicularly from the horizon,
as if to support the starry dome. Suddenly
the whole magnificent temple would disappear,
leaving “not a wreck behind.” Other forms and
strange shapes, more brilliant and richly covered
with prismatic hues, as if a rainbow had been dissolved
and its fragments scattered over the northern
skies, succeeded, and these were yet followed by
others, until their eyes were dazzled and their
imaginations bewildered by the wild magnificence
of the scene. After assuming a myriad of shapes,

this gorgeous phenomenon, in which Eugenie imagined
she could trace innumerable graceful outlines
of familiar objects, entirely disappeared, leaving the
northern skies cold, dark, and cheerless as before.

The dawn found the travellers within two leagues
of Quebec, and near the St. Lawrence, which
spread its unfrozen bosom before them like a lake.
As the sun rose, the opposite shores of this majestic
river were visible two leagues distant, white with
snow, yet variegated by cottages, churches, and
villages; while on their right, far to the northeast,
rose the towers and citadel of Quebec, crowning a
lofty promontory, which stood boldly out into the
broad river like an island of rock.

The travellers gazed on the distant city with
various and mingled emotions. In the mind of
Eugenie it was associated with home and its endearments.
And her eyes sparkled with pleasure
as she pointed out familiar objects, and spoke of
her return to the abode of her childhood and youth,
and to the arms of her maternal friend. Her anticipated
happiness was, nevertheless, alloyed by
the reflection that it was to be purchased by a
separation, which, so busy had love been in her
young heart, she began to contemplate with sadness.
The young soldier viewed the proud citadel
as the theatre of war and the gathering-point of
armies; its walls soon to resound with the roar of
cannon, and where important events were speedily
about to transpire. He contemplated it as a
soldier, and as a foe to its masters. With his national
feelings, however, were mingled others with
which Cupid had more to do than Mars. There
he was to take leave of Eugenie, the lovely partner
of his journey, the sharer of its fatigues, the
participater in all its dangers; it was, therefore,

not without emotion, which found ready sympathy
in her own bosom, that he said,

“There, dear Eugenie, is your journey's end.
My dream of happiness is terminated. It was too
exquisite to last. This morning, Eugenie, we
must part; I, to go whither my fortunes lead me;
you to the embraces of those you love. Forget
me and be happy.”

“Edward!” said the novice, laying her hand
upon his arm, and speaking in a soft tone of reproof,
“why will you talk so strangely? Do not
imbitter by your sad words the last hour we are
to be together. Never can I forget the debt of
gratitude I owe you.”

“Gratitude, Eugenie?” he repeated, bitterly.
“Only gratitude?”

Eugenie blushed deeply, and was about to reply
with drooping eyelids, but with an arch expression
on her lips that contradicted the mute and timid
glances of her eyes, when Ohguesse drew up at a
cabin on the verge of the water, and, turning inquiringly
to the monk, said,

“Priest hab boat, eh?”

The monk looked around and saw that they
were at a small landing-place or ferry-house, near
which, attached to a rude flotilla, swung a batteau
capable of containing a dozen persons. Under the
active superintendence of Ohguesse the boat was
soon ready to receive its passengers. Before leaving
the carriole the monk examined the directions
for his route given him by the Chevalier de Levi,
and ascertained that he was opposite the residence
of the priest Guise, which was on the north side
of the river a few miles above Quebec, and that
the ferry-boat would land him at the hamlet near
which it was situated. Rewarding the faithful
Ohguesse for his services, and bidding him adieu,

the travellers exchanged the carriole for the less
comfortable and more dangerous batteau, and, after
a perilous passage through masses of ice, constantly
floating by and momently threatening to crush their
boat, which was only saved from destruction by the
dexterity and experience of two Canadian boatmen,
they at length gained the northern shore.

The abode of the priest Guisé was in the only
remaining wing of an antiquated brick chapel, which
at an earlier period had been constructed by the
missionaries for their aboriginal converts. It was
built on the side of a rocky terrace, and so near
the water that the river washed its walls. Proceeding
for a quarter of a mile by a rude path
along the shore, the travellers, after ascending a
few natural steps in the rock, came to an open
gate in a high wall enclosing the edifice. Entering
it, they traversed a covered passage, and came to a
door at its extremity, which was closed and locked.
Applying for admission with that good-will which
their fatigue and the severity of the season rendered
expedient, their appeal was answered by a tall,
swarthy man in the garb of a priest, with exceedingly
penetrating gray eyes and harsh features,
who, without inviting them to enter, waited in austere
silence for them to make known their business.

“This is the abode of the curé Guisé?” observed
the monk, interrogatively.

“I am the curé Guisé, and this is my abode,”
he replied, in a voice that corresponded with his
features.

“Then it is with you my business lies,” said the
monk, without noticing the rudeness of his reception.

The curé grumbled something in the way of an
invitation to enter, and, replacing the bar upon the
door, preceded them with an impatient stride towards
a small room, through the open door of which

the travellers beheld, with no little degree of pleasure,
a fire burning with a bright and cheerful blaze.
They entered the room, which was long and narrow,
with a low ceiling, and a single window commanding
a prospect of the river and Quebec. Without
ceremony they advanced to the fire, while their
host, closing the door, seated himself at a small
table near the fireplace, whereon, it being noon,
stood a pitcher of water, a broiled fish, and a loaf
of brown bread: in the discussion of these, from
their dilapidated condition, it was very apparent
he had been interrupted by the arrival of the travellers;
and to this circumstance they were charitably
disposed to attribute his ill-humour.

Without noticing them he applied himself diligently
to his repast, and by the time they had expelled
the cold from their limbs, the fish, water,
and bread had disappeared within the copious jaws
of the reverend curé. Then turning round, for his
back had been towards them during his meal, he
looked more complacently upon his guests, eying
them, nevertheless, with very close scrutiny. Eugenie,
by the advice of the young officer, had resumed
her disguise, and, muffled in her cowl and
furs, passed very well as a priest, though a rather
diffident one, and somewhat small of stature. During
the scrutiny of the priest she shrunk as much
as possible behind her companion, who, apprehensive
that her timidity would lead to the detection
of her disguise, abruptly addressed his host:

“Thou knowest the Chevalier de Levi, brother?”

The priest started to his feet at the name, bent
his eyes fixedly on the speaker, and, cautiously
glancing his eyes at the disguised novice, replied
evasively,

“I know a holy man whom men call the Father
Etienne.”

“Then thou knowest the Chevalier de Levi.
He bade me give you this pacquet,” said the monk,
placing the correspondence of the chevalier in his
hands.

The priest ran his eye over the superscriptions
of the letters, glancing at intervals at his guest.
Catching his own address on one of the epistles,
he hastily tore the seal, and perused it with an excited
countenance. Then, approaching the disguised
soldier, he said,

“Brother, thou art welcome; and for the news of
which thou art the bearer, doubly so. The time has
at last come when the dignity of the church shall
be restored, and the Canadas be free from the yoke
of heretics. Where left you the army of invaders,
who come friends, and not enemies, to Canada?”

“Within four days they will be on the opposite
shore, ready to co-operate with the other division.
Can you give me any information of the movements
of General Montgomery?”

“There is a rumour that he has already captured
Montreal, and is on his march to Quebec;
but I gave no credence to it, not being informed
of the invasion. The news you now bring renders
it probable.”

“It is, without doubt, true,” said the soldier, with
confidence. “Where is your governor, Sir Guy
Carleton?”

“With the troops near Montreal, endeavouring
to defend it and the surrounding country against
any attacks of the colonists. If Montreal be already
in your hands, he will doubtless return to
Quebec by forced marches. The city is at this
moment nearly defenceless; and if Colonel Arnold
would cross the river to-morrow, it would fall
into his hands without a struggle for its defence.”

“If Montgomery can out-general Carleton, and

gain a march on him,” observed the young officer,
“the city will fall into his hands before Arnold
arrives. But it is important that he should be informed
of our approach before Carleton can learn
it.”

“The fate of the country depends on the possession
of Quebec,” said the priest, earnestly.
“Carleton knows this full well, and will not fail to
avail himself of every means for its preservation.
Montgomery will, perhaps, hesitate to advance
without hearing from your division; and if he
gives Carleton an opportunity of taking advantage
of his delay, the city will be re-enforced, and its
capture difficult.”

The young man paced the room for several
minutes after the priest had ceased speaking with
an impetuous tread and a flushed brow; then, suddenly
stopping, he said,

“What you say is too true. Would to God
Arnold were here! Delay will be fatal to us.
Montgomery must be informed at once of the approach
of our division, so that a junction of the
forces may be effected as soon as possible. You
can furnish horses for my brother and myself?”

“When will you set forth?”

“So soon as you can get horses ready and we
can take a little refreshment,” said the officer,
glancing rather despairingly towards the empty
dishes upon the cure's dining-table.

As the intelligence the officer had received rendered
it necessary that he should immediately continue
his journey, and as there would be danger in
going into the city now that the rumour of the fall
of Montreal had reached it, it became expedient
that Eugenie either should be committed to the
charge of the Father Guisé, and trust to him for a
conveyance to the city, which would have subjected

her to detection and annoyance, or continue on
with her companion to the camp of Montgomery,
which he expected to reach that night. Eugenie
reluctantly decided on adopting the latter plan, after
he had promised that, immediately on their arrival
at the camp, she should be placed under the protection
of General Montgomery until she could be
restored to her friends.

In less than an hour after their arrival at the insulated
abode of the priest Guisé, they were once more
on their way, coursing with a pair of fleet horses
along the shores of the St. Lawrence, leaving Quebec,
with its warlike battlements, far behind.

“Farewell, for a brief space, proud citadel,” said
the monk, as an angle in the road concealed the city
from their view; “when next I survey your walls
it will be in other guise than this monk's garb.
But it is a garb dearly prized, my Eugenie,” he continued,
gently removing her hood and seeking her
eyes, “and one that I shall hereafter hold sacred, as
having been the means of linking my fate with the
loveliest and sweetest of human beings. In three
hours, or, at least, by evening, we shall be at Trois
Rivières, where, doubtless, we shall fall in with the
army. There, Eugenie,” he added, sadly, “you
will find more befitting protection than mine.”

Eugenie slightly returned the pressure of his
hand with which he accompanied his words, but
made no reply.

They journeyed with great rapidity, learning the
success of the American arms and the capture of
Montreal from every tongue. At length, about ten
leagues from Quebec, on gaining the summit of
a hill that overlooked the river for many miles,
and from which they could trace their road for a
great distance as it wound along the shore, they
were surprised by discovering the approach of a

body of troops in the plain beneath, and within less
than half a league of them.

“Hold!” cried the monk to his guide or postillion
—for Father Guisé had hired the traineau, horses,
and driver for his guests from the keeper of an inn
in the adjacent hamlet, who sometimes kept relays
for the mails between Quebec and Montreal—“can
these be Montgomery's forces so near? But there
is too much scarlet in that host, and yonder flies
King George's standard.”

“It must be Carleton, who has caught the alarm,
and is making a forced march to throw himself
into Quebec,” said Eugenie, with animation.

“And you look, Eugenie,” replied the young soldier,
laughing, “as if you wished him success.”

“I have known Sir Guy Carleton from childhood,”
answered Eugenie; “and though I feel as
the daughter of Colonel de Lisle, I also feel an
interest in an old friend, though he may be of those
against whom my father drew his sword.”

“No doubt you feel a deeper interest in a titled
Englishman than in a simple colonist,” said the
young soldier, with that morbidness of feeling to
which lovers are sometimes subject. “Perhaps,”
he added, ironically, “Miss de Lisle would like
to exchange, in case this should prove Carleton's
army, her present protector for one more noble.”

“The exchange could not be effected without
exposing you to danger, Edward,” she quietly observed,
without taking any notice of his manner.
“I am anxious to return to Quebec; but, if Montgomery
is so near, I will not alter my original determination.
Is it really Carleton who approaches,
do you think, Edward?”

“It is,” he said, with animation. “Oh for one
hour's advance of him with the gallant Montgomery's
legion! But see! their vanguard is winding

round the angle of yonder wood. We must withdraw
from the highway if we would not both return
under escort to Quebec.”

He directed the guide to turn back, and, descending
the hill a short distance, they entered a sledge-road
leading into the forest on their right, and in a
few minutes were entirely concealed from observation
in a thicket of larches. The young soldier,
however, from a mingled curiosity and a desire to
ascertain the number of troops, accompanied by
Eugenie, left the traineau, and cautiously approached
the highroad. Here concealed in a thick clump
of young pines, where, unless actually sought after,
they could remain undiscovered, they awaited the
march of the detachment past their post of observation.

They had been there but a short time when a score
of troopers, with a noble-looking youth at their head,
the advanced guard of the army, came trotting over
the brow of the hill, with sabres clashing, spurs
and bridles ringing, and attended with all those
martial and blood-stirring sounds which characterize
the movements of dragoons rather than the less
imposing march of infantry.

“I should like to measure swords with thee,
young gallant,” said the monk, mentally, as their
youthful leader approached, prancing before his
troop, which followed in a column four abreast;
and, descending the hill at a round trot, the whole
body dashed past him, stern and silent, and disappeared
in a wood at the foot of the hill.

A quarter of an hour elapsed, when a heavy, dull
sound, like the continuous noise of a distant water-fall,
fell on their ears, and gradually increased till the
ground seemed to shake beneath them. The monk
watched eagerly in the direction of the approaching
sound, and in a few moments saw a single horseman,

in the uniform of an aiddecamp, with waving plume
and drawn sword, make his appearance on the brow
of the hill, rein up his spirited horse as he gained
the summit, and survey, with a quick glance, the
descent before him. Then casting a look down
the declivity he had just ascended, he paused until
another officer joined him. Both, putting spurs to
their horses, then galloped down the road out of
sight just as the helmets of a platoon of infantry
appeared over the brow behind them. Another
and another platoon followed, till a whole column
appeared, all marching in good order, shoulder to
shoulder, like the steady advance of one man, and
in a compact body moved down the hill, without
music, and with a dead, heavy tramp, for which
Eugenie, as she listened to it with sensations of
awe, in vain searched her imagination for a simile,
so unearthly was the sound, so unlike any she had
ever heard.

The rear of this column of regular troops was
still in sight when a cavalcade of officers appeared
trotting slowly along to adapt their movements to
the march of the infantry. They were seven or
eight in number, the majority of whom were quite
young men, and all but two of them wore the British
uniform: these were in the light simple dress
adopted by the Canadian cavaliers who had volunteered
their services for the war, some of them
bringing and commanding companies of their own
levying.

In the midst of this group rode an elderly officer,
in whom, to a gentlemanly and strikingly military
appearance, was united that manly and intrepid air
characteristic of the British soldier. He was in
conversation with an aiddecamp who rode by his
side. Halting a moment on the ridge across which
the road wound, he surveyed with a military eye

the route before him, and then at a slow pace again
moved forward, passing so near the grove of pines,
which stood within a few feet of the highway, that
a portion of his conversation was audible to the
concealed travellers.

“If Colonel Arnold, as this rebel styles himself,”
said the superior officer, who, from the insignia of
his rank, was a colonel, and commander of the battalion,
“should arrive at Quebec before us, M`Lean
will hardly hold out against a vigorous attack.”

“If the intelligence we received at Montreal be
true,” replied the aid; “but the messenger sent
yesterday by Colonel M`Lean reported that nothing
had yet been heard from him.”

“Were he already at Point Levi, ay, in possession
of Quebec, he should not hold it twenty-four
hours after our arrival,” said the other.

“If he is like this Hibernian Montgomery,” observed
a young officer, with a light mustache on
his upper lip, “he will take Quebec before we can
throw our forces into it.”

“No men fight so well or desperately as rebels,”
remarked the elder officer. “These colonists may
probably, at first, succeed in a few enterprises, but
the rebellion eventually will be crushed. M`Lean
is a gallant soldier, and, though he has but a handful
of men, and two thirds of the line of walls must
be left undefended, he will not capitulate so long
as he has a man left to apply a match or draw a
trigger.”

“For but one hour of Montgomery!” exclaimed
the impatient monk, as they passed by and disappeared
in the forest.

“St! my hasty knight,” said Eugenie, placing her
hand on his mouth. “You will not have even a
minute of your own if those fierce-looking men
discover us,” she added, glancing with some alarm

towards a second division of the army which that
moment appeared, and by the music of drum and
fife marched by with a lively step, its prolonged
column winding, like a huge centipede, down the
hill, till it disappeared in the forest at its base.
Another column followed this, preceded by two or
three officers possessing very little of the military
air. This body of troops was without uniforms,
irregular in its appearance, and unsteady in its
march. The soldiers or volunteers who composed
it evinced, by their independent movements as individuals,
a sovereign contempt for the simultaneous
planting of feet to the ground, the full and regular
front, and stern silence characterizing the regular
troops that had preceded them. They marched,
or rather crowded forward like a mob which has
endeavoured to assume something of a military aspect,
some with their muskets slung across their
backs, others carrying them like spades over their
shoulders, as if familiar with the mode; others were
entirely without them, but their absence was accounted
for in the appearance of a huge negro
tramping along behind with some half a score of
these weapons of war lashed on his back, doubtless
to be resumed by their owners in case of need.
Some were smoking, one or two were singing the
fag end of a ballad, while the majority were exercising
their tongues in a loud and boisterous manner.
As they went by some of them straggled
along the road so widely that our travellers in ambush
momently apprehended discovery from an accidental
detour upon their place of concealment.

They had nearly all passed by when a loiterer
in a foxskin cap, with the brush hanging down his
back, and in a capote of shaggy furs, stumbled so
near their place of concealment that Eugenie uttered

an involuntary exclamation, which only the thickness
of the fur about his ears prevented him from
hearing. Another, who followed him closely, still
further alarmed them for their safety by breaking
off a sprig of larch from one of the bushes screening
their persons, and sticking it in his bonnet like
a plume, with which he moved on after his comrade
with a prouder gait than before.

When the last straggler of a miserable herd of
noisy camp-followers of both sexes, and several
baggage-wagons had passed by and disappeared,
Eugenie drew a long breath, as if relieved from
anxiety, felt rather for her companion than for herself,
and said, in a lively tone,

“Marie be thanked! You are now safe.”

“You are not quite a soldier yet, my Eugenie,”
he playfully said, “although you have just beheld
the march of an army, if these few companies can
be dignified with such an appellation. The vanguard
is yet to pass. This long serpent has a tail
as well as head and body. Hark! there sounds a
bugle! They are calling in and warning the stragglers
to fall into the line of march and keep up with
the main body. See! they approach!”

As he spoke, a squadron of about thirty horse
appeared, with a banner fluttering in their van, on
the brow of the hill, preceded by a trumpeter, who
halted as they gained the summit, and blew several
notes loud and long. The party then rode slowly
down the hill, laughing and talking in the rude and
reckless manner characteristic of soldiers, who,
ever at war with death and familiar with its aspect,
give less thought to it, even on the eve of battle,
than peaceful citizens, accustomed to contemplate
it less familiarly and under different features and
circumstances, are prepared to believe.

After this troop had swept past the disguised
officer, whose bosom glowed while these warlike
scene passed before his eyes, burning with impatience
to mingle in the approaching strife, he hastened
back to the traineau. In a few minutes they
regained the high-road, now trodden solid by the
feet of many hundred men, and proceeded on their
route towards the camp of Montgomery.