University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ESCAPE.

“The evening you parted from me so very sentimentally,”
commenced Eugenie, with mock gravity,
and putting herself in the genuine story-telling
attitude, “the faithful Horsford, without falling in
love with me, as good General Montgomery predicted,
placed me in the charge of Colonel Olney,
from whom and the general's lady I received every
kindness which a distressed damsel could demand.
The colonel's chateau is situated close to the river,
and a gallery in the rear of the wing I was to occupy
overhung the water. After I had retired to
my room, wakeful from the various adventures of
the day, and with my imagination too lively to yield
to sleep, I threw up my window, which opened
upon the gallery, and, wrapping myself in a fur
bonnet and cloak of Colonel Olney's, for a while
promenaded there.”

“Waiting for some invisible serenader, like a
true heroine.” said Burton, smiling.

“Did I not bid you be silent, Edward? Beware,
or you will get but a half-told tale! I had walked
but a few minutes, however, when other music than
that of the guitar and lute reached my ears. It
came from the water. I leaned over the balustrade
and looked down upon the river, when the sound of
oars became very plain, and I could see indistinctly
through the darkness a boat approaching the
land. In a little while it came to the beach directly
under the chateau, and two men stepped on
shore.

“They walked apart from those who remained
in the boat, and at length stopped, in low but animated
conversation, at the foot of the rock overhung
by the balcony. I listened a few moments,
and catching some words, such as `Quebec,' `Montgomery,'
and `Colonel Arnold,' the legitimate curiosity
of my sex was roused to learn more. So,
wrapping my mantelet closer about my person, I
descended a flight of stairs leading from the gallery
to a rough path down the side of the cliff. This I
entered. After winding round the rock for a short
distance, it conducted me to a small level area at
the foot, and close to the speakers, from whom a
sharp angle of the precipice only separated me. I
could now hear every word, and soon ascertained
that Sir Guy Carleton was one of the two. The
other I afterward learned was an influential tory
from the States.

“They spoke of the affairs which are on every
tongue; of the approach of Colonel Arnold; the
danger of Quebec; the successes of Montgomery,
and of the strength of the king's party in the colonies.
Governor Carleton at length gave some instruction
and letters to the other, who took leave
of him and proceeded along the beach toward Trois
Rivières. At the same moment I regained the

path, to make good my retreat to the chateau; but,
in my haste, my foot slipped on the icy surface,
and, displacing a stone, the noise drew the attention
of Governor Carleton, who was hastening back
to his boat. At once suspecting a listener to his
conversation, which, nevertheless, did not at all reward
my curiosity nor repay me for my trouble, he
stopped and narrowly surveyed the face of the rock,
when his quick eye detected the interloper. He
sprang up the ascent, and the next moment I was
his prisoner, rescue or no rescue. Before I could
explain who I was or why I was there, I found
myself seated in the boat between two rough soldiers,
and facing Governor Carleton, on my way
down the river. In reply to his interrogatories,
I explained, very much to his astonishment, supposing
he had caught some rebel spy to make an
example of, who I was and how I came to be at
the chateau, and, subsequently, his prisoner. He
recognised me by the boat-lamp, and I had the
pleasure of exchanging my seat between my ruffian-looking
guards for a place by the side of my captor.

“The next morning I arrived at Quebec, and
have ever since remained in the family of Governor
Carleton, who has manifested a deep interest
in me, and already taken legal steps preparatory
to the investigation of my hereditary rights.
The acquaintance of Sir Guy Carleton with my father,
and his intimacy with Madame Montmorin,”
concluded Eugenie, “renders the chateau more a
home to me than Colonel Olney's would have been.
“My presence here,” she added, with feeling, “also
affords me an opportunity of repaying in kind a
debt of gratitude I owe you, Edward, for an escape
some weeks since from a prison even more
dreary than this.”

As she alluded to the period which introduced to

her heart the image of one who had since solely possessed
it, and, at the same time, recalled the progress
of that love, strengthened amid numerous dangers;
the faltering tones of her voice, the softness
of her manner, the telltale cheek and drooping eyelid,
ingenuously told a tale of love to which the sentiments
of the youthful soldier responded. Gently
drawing her to his heart, he for the first time sought
and received from her lips the assurance that he
was beloved. Before they separated from that lingering
embrace they had exchanged vows of unchanging
constancy. The words were registered
in heaven! but, alas, they were uttered on earth,
and by mortals!

The ringing of a musket on the pavement of
the hall, and the tramp and voices of men relieving
guard, recalled them from bright creations of the
future to the realities of the present moment.

“A monk hath gone in, I suppose, to confess
the prisoner,” said a voice, which Eugenie recognised
to be that of the guard. “You will have to
let him out when he gets through.”

“Ay, ay! lave me for doin' that same,” replied
the soldier who had relieved him; “and, by St.
Pathrick, will I axs him for absolution and holy
wather for me sins.”

“'Twould take the Red Sea to wash your sins
out, Teddy,” rejoined the soldier, with a laugh.
“You'd best ask him to give ye a little o' the oil of
extreme unction to make your skin slippery, so
that, if the devil grabs you, you can slip through
his fingers like an eel.”

“The divil hould ye wid his clutches in purgatory,
omadhown an misbelaaver that ye are,” replied
Teddy, as the hall door closed and separated
him from his opponent.

His measured tread was soon alone heard moving
regularly across the hall.

“Dearest Eugenie, you have placed yourself in
danger by visiting me,” said the lover. “I fear
your anxiety on my—”

“Now, do not say anything too flattering to
yourself, my dear Burton. I am in no jeopardy
whatever. It is you who are in danger, and,” she
said, firmly, “I am determined to aid your escape.”

“Impossible, my lovely enthusiast. If I possessed
wings, as I have no doubt you do, why I
might, perhaps, fly from this window and find freedom
on yonder promontory; but otherwise there
is little chance for me.”

“This monk's frock will serve you better,” she
said, with animation, “than wings, Edward, if you
will envelop yourself in it and pass the sentinel as
Father Eustache, as I have done. The way is
open to the gate. There you will find no obstacles,
for priests are privileged, their holy duties
calling them forth at all seasons.”

“Romantic girl!” he said, embracing her; “you
should be a soldier's bride! But this may not be.
The attempt possibly might be successful; but I
cannot consent to adopt the steps you propose to
gain my liberty. You will be sacrificed to Governor
Carleton's displeasure, which will fall upon
you when he learns my escape.”

“He cannot injure a woman!”

“But he will withdraw his paternal care from
you.”

“He will not. But I am willing to sacrifice it,
if need be, and all else, to save your life.”

“But my life is not in danger, Eugenie.”

“But it may be,” she said, earnestly. “Oh, I
cannot live and know that you are in a dreary
prison. This is not long to be the place of your
confinement. You will be removed within the
hour, and be thrown into some gloomy prison, perhaps

the horrid Dauphin, with a hundred others,
and exposed to every privation. No, no, you must
consent to escape. I will promise you my agency
shall never be known to the governor.”

“Assure me that you will not suffer by your
generosity, and I will yield, noble Eugenie.”

“Oh, how stubborn you are! You never thought
of obstacles when you released me from my religious
imprisonment.”

“But I had a prize worthy of every sacrifice to
rescue,” he said, ardently.

“And have not I a prize? Nay, do you not now,
by doing what I request, serve me more than you
then did, inasmuch as your liberty is dearer to me
than my own? Must Eugenie believe herself less
dear to Edward now than she was then?”

“Dearest, noble Eugenie! You have conquered!
If you will only assure me that Governor Carleton
can in any way be kept in ignorance of your agency
in this romantic attempt, I will obey you.”

“The guard will permit whoever goes out disguised
in this monk's frock to pass freely. I will
remain here until from this window I see you take
boat and land at Point Levi on the opposite shore.
Then, assured of your safety, I will boldly call the
guard to let me out. If he betrays any surprise, I
will amuse him with some excuse, for, as I have
been here some weeks, most of the chateau guards
know my person. When your escape is discovered,
his own safety will keep his tongue.”

“'Tis well planned, my brave Eugenie. But
still I fear the result.”

At length, yielding to the arguments, entreaties,
and even tears, woman's last resort, of Eugenie,
the prisoner consented to escape after settling
the place of their next meeting. Disguising himself

in the monk's cassock, he said, as he drew the
cowl about his face,

“This has been fortune's cap to me, and I cheerfully
trust to it once more.”

“Remember,” she said, impressively, “you are
to leave the city immediately for the States. I
shall anxiously follow your escape with my eyes
till you arrive at Point Levi.”

“I remember! and that in the spring I return
to claim my bride!”

“If my father's lands are mine. Thou shalt not
take me penniless. If your restless spirit must find
employment in war, seek it nearer its great theatre,
in the province of New-York.”

A brief and protracted leave-taking took place
between them, after the manner of all true lovers,
and especially as became the hero and heroine
of a romance. Burton now informed her of the
death of her friend and protector, General Montgomery,
which deeply affected her, and added to
the sadness of their parting.

He now called to the guard and was let out by
him; not, however, without being solicited for absolution;
but he hastily passed him and safely gained
the outside of the chateau.

Muffling his face in his cowl, he steadily pursued
his way through the narrow avenues of the town,
between rows of ancient stone houses, in the direction
of the Mountain street, which led from the citadel
to the Lower Town. At one moment he
was jostled by a crowd of soldiers, who paid little
respect to his holy garments; at another involved in
a group of females and children, crowding with lamentations
about the dwelling of some burgher or
artificer slain in the assault. Once, at the corner of
a street, his robe was seized by a youth, who entreated
him to hasten and confess his father in the
last agonies. He was about to follow the boy as

the only alternative of preserving his apparent character,
and turning suspicion from his disguise, when
a child came running and saying,

“It is too late; trouble not the holy father.”

Descending the precipitous way cut in the face
of the cliff, he encountered a file of prisoners, escorted,
on their way to prison, by a detachment of
soldiers. As the road was narrow and the crowd
great, he was compelled to walk past so close as
to brush against them. He had nearly escaped the
throng when he was gently pulled by the sleeve.
Turning hastily, and in some alarm, he caught the
eye of Zacharie, who was tied to another prisoner
by a stout cord.

His first impulse was to endeavour to effect his
release. Stopping, he rapidly ran over in his mind
some feasible plan to liberate his esquire from his
thraldom. His motive was understood by Zacharie,
who immediately set up a most lamentable cry,
twisting his features into contortions inimitably expressive
of violent pain, and crying out,

“Oh, I am dying! Oh, for a holy priest to relieve
my conscience! Misericorde! Oh, a priest,
a priest!” and, flinging himself upon his knees beside
his fellow-prisoner, to whom he was bound, he
lifted up his voice in the most pitiful wailings.

Before the monk could recover from his astonishment,
he was seized by half a dozen burghers
and soldiers, and dragged with pious celerity to the
dying penitent.

“The saints reward you,” cried the sufferer.
“Oh, stand back! Father, my soul—oh, oh—I
shall not live. Oh—holy monk, thine ear.”

The bewildered monk bent his ear to the feigning
penitent, when he said quickly, in a low voice,

“Bid the villains cut my cords. Oh, I shall die
—my hands,” he began, in a higher key than before.

“Cast the cord loose,” said the monk, now in
some degree enlightened.

The prisoner was instantly released, but his
howlings continued to increase rather than diminish,
and he rolled over the ground in apparent agony.
The captain of the guard at length said,

“Leave the poor lad with the father. If he recovers,
we'll make him responsible for him. If he
die, as he's like to, why the priest can bury him.”

The detachment of prisoners again marched forward;
and, as their distance increased, so did the
invalid's malady decrease. He at length became
so much better as to lean on the monk's arm, who
promised the dispersing crowd that he would be
accountable for him.

“He's but small fry, any how,” said a citizen,
turning away.

“'Tis Father Eustache, I think,” observed another,
as the priest and his penitent walked slowly
down the hill.

“I think he be,” replied a third, “though he looks
some bit shorter than the father.”

The monk no sooner arrived in the Lower Town,
than Zacharie was miraculously restored to the full
possession of his health, and walked briskly beside
his deliverer towards the quay.

“Zacharie,” said the monk, “your lungs do you
credit, and, what with your wits, have held you in
good stead to-day. I suppose you will use your
liberty, if we get safe across the water, to good
purpose, and return to study the humanities with
Father Ducosse.”

“I prefer studying the broadsword with thee, sir.”

“But I am on my way to the States.”

“Then am I,” said Zacharie.

Finally, as he could not be prevailed on to return
to his maternal roof, he was permitted to remain

with his master, who knew from experience
the value of his services.

On their way through the streets they passed a
house which had been occupied by the American
troops. Numerous dead bodies were lying about,
some of them half-hanging from windows, others
laid across the threshold, or piled before the doors.
They paused here an instant; and the monk gazed
on the scene with emotions in which disappointment
and regret for the fate of the day were mingled
with revulsion at the gory spectacle of human
carnage.

They were about walking forward again when
a deep groan fell upon their ears. Burton's steps
were arrested; and, looking round, he beheld in a
recess, reclining on the pavement, with his back
supported by an aged larch which grew beside the
building, an officer apparently severely wounded
He drew near him, and recognised Captain Germaine.
The wounded man lifted his eyes at his
approach, and feebly extended one hand, while he
covered his breast with the other, vainly trying to
stanch the blood which, from a deep wound, oozed
through his fingers.

“Not badly hurt, my dear captain?” inquired
Burton, putting aside his cowl and showing his
face, while he sympathizingly took his hand.

“Dying, Major Burton. My campaign is ended
for this life.”

“Not so bad, I trust, Captain Germaine.”

“It is all over, major. I have one request to
make before life runs quite away. I have a fond
wife and an affectionate daughter. Take a locket
and papers from my breast when I am dead, and
bear it—oh, God, that I should die and leave them
desolate! Take it—bear it to them with my dying
affection.”

“It shall be done as you wish,” said Burton,
pressing his hand with warmth.

The dying soldier acknowledged his gratitude by
a look of satisfaction, and then feebly articulating,

“Laura, my dear wife—Caroline, my child—
farewell! Give my Laura your hand from mine,
major. Tell her it received my last grasp in
death.”

In a few moments the soldier was no more. Burton
closed his eyes, and removed the packet and
miniature undisturbed by the few passengers gliding
with alarmed and anxious faces through the
streets, who, viewing his religious garb, believed
he was performing the last duties of religion to a
soul, and respected his sacred office. Covering the
dead soldier with his cloak, Burton cast towards
him a farewell look, and, with Zacharie, hastened on
his way to the river, and embarked for the southern
shore.

As the footsteps of her departing lover died
away at the extremity of the hall, Eugenie, with
a face beaming with hope, while her heart throbbed
with anxiety, took her station by the window to
trace his flight. She caught sight of his form as he
descended the steep thoroughfare of the town, and
with speechless terror saw him seized by the soldiers;
and, although her limbs scarcely supported
her sinking frame, and her eyes grew dim with the
intensity of her gaze, she watched the whole scene,
altogether incomprehensible to her, until the procession
of prisoners again moved on. With a prayer
of gratitude upon her lips, she saw him again proceed
on his way, supporting a youth. Her eye
followed him until he was hidden by the roofs of a
projecting hangard or warehouse, when he was lost
to her gaze in the windings of the irregular streets.
Soon afterward she saw him, still, to her surprise,

attended by his companion, arrive at the shore and
put off in one of the numerous batteaux that plied
for hire between the city and Point Levi.

She kept her place at the window, and gazed after
the boat until its inmates were scarcely distinguishable,
and from time to time answering the wave of a
white handkerchief which fluttered for an instant, as
if by accident, above the head of one who sat in the
stern, with a less cautious signal of her fair hand.
When the boat was blended with the opposite
shore, she strained her eyes to distinguish the form
of her lover as he disembarked. The smile that
dwelt on her lip when she was at length assured of
his safety from pursuit was instantly chased away
by the tears that came fast into her eyes when she
thought she should behold him no more for many
months, perhaps never meet him again on earth.
Between mingled emotions of joy and sorrow, the
maiden, losing the heroine in the woman, kneeled
by the window, and, with clasped hands and full
heart, thanked Heaven for his escape. She then
put up a silent prayer for their speedy and happy
reunion.

Now casting a long, lingering look towards the
opposite shore, she turned with a deep sigh from
the window. After making one or two ineffectual
attempts to address the sentinel, she at length,
by a strong mental effort, summoned that energy
which her situation demanded, and, with a smile at
anticipating his surprise, said, in a firm, confident
tone,

“Ho, Sir Soldier! draw bolt and let me out.
Do gallant Irishmen keep guard over ladies?”

“The divil, thin! but 'tis a faamale voice!”

“To be sure it is. So let me come out if you
be a true Irishman.”

“You're a leddy, by your own swate spaking lips.

But, faith now, I've no orthers ony for the praast as
is off, widout nivir laaving a blissin ahint him.”

“I do myself give you orders to let me out.”

“An' if ye'll tell me, honey swate, what is yer
own jewill of a name, I'll maybe let ye out.”

“`Have you never heard tell of Kate Kearney?”'
sung, or rather chanted his prisoner in reply, and
in a lively voice of such sweetness that, either at
the name or by association, the Irishman's heart
opened, and, applying the key to the door, he said
as he turned the bolt,

“By St. Pathrick, an' I'm the lad has often heard
till of Kate Kearney of Killarney; and if—och
hone! here's traason in pitticoats,” he cried, as
his prisoner darted through the half-opened door
like an arrow, knocked his musket down with a
heavy clash, and disappeared through the hall leading
to the inhabited wing of the chateau.

Recovering his musket, the astonished Teddy
found that the cell was deserted; neither priest
nor prisoner was to be seen. At first he prepared
to lift up his voice to give the alarm; but the reflection
how far he might be suspected in aiding
the escape of the prisoner, whom he believed he had
permitted to pass by him in the guise of a female,
suggested to him the expediency of forestalling an
examination and a military sentence by desertion
to the enemy. Suppressing, therefore, a sort of
Irish howl with which he was about to give voice
to his lamentations, he carefully locked the door of
the cell, stole from the chateau, and found his way
into the enemy's camp, which, under General Arnold,
who had now assumed the command, was
pitched three miles from the city, with the object
of reducing it by a blockade. Eugenie gained her
room undiscovered and unsuspected. On learning
the escape of his prisoner and the simultaneous

desertion of the guard, Governor Carleton was impressed
with the idea that the soldier had betrayed
his trust, and voluntarily liberated and escaped with
him.

Leaving the northern division of the American
army to its destinies, we shall now transfer the
scenes of our story to a period some months later
than that embraced by this volume, and fix them on
an equally important theatre of the war which gave
to these United States their independence.