University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Major Heyward found Munro attended only by
his daughters. Alice sate upon his knee, parting the
gray hairs on the forehead of the old man, with her
delicate fingers; and whenever he affected to frown
on her trifling, appeasing his assumed anger, by
pressing her ruby lips fondly on his wrinkled brow.
Cora was seated nigh them, a calm and amused looker-on;
regarding the wayward movements of her
more youthful sister, with that species of maternal
fondness, which characterised her love for Alice.
Not only the dangers through which they had passed,
but those which still impended above them, appeared
to be momentarily forgotten, in the soothing indulgence
of such a family meeting. It seemed as if they
had profited by the short truce, to devote an instant
to the purest and best affections: the daughters forgetting
their fears, and the veteran his cares, in the
stillness and security of the moment. Of this scene,
Duncan, who, in his eagerness to report his arrival,
had entered unannounced, stood many moments an
unobserved and a delighted spectator. But the quick
and dancing eyes of Alice soon caught a glimpse of his
figure, reflected from a glass, and she sprang blushing

from her father's knee, exclaiming aloud, in her
surprise—

“Major Heyward!”

“What of the lad?” demanded her father; “I
have sent him to crack a little with the Frenchman.
Ha! sir, you are young, and your're nimble! Away
with you, ye baggage; as if there were not troubles
enough for a soldier, without having his camp filled
with such prattling hussies as yourself!”

Alice laughingly followed her sister, who instantly
led the way from an apartment, where she perceived
their presence was no longer desirable. Munro, instead
of demanding the result of the young man's
mission, paced the room for a few moments, with his
hands behind his back, and his head inclined towards
the floor, like a man lost in deep thought. At length,
he raised his eyes, glistening with a father's fondness,
and exclaimed—

“They are a pair of excellent girls, Heyward, and
such as any one may boast of!”

“You are not now to learn my opinion of your
daughters, Colonel Munro.”

“True, lad, true,” interrupted the impatient old
man; “you were about opening your mind more
fully on that matter the day you got in; but I did not
think it becoming in an old soldier to be talking of
nuptial blessings, and wedding jokes, when the enemies
of his king were likely to be unbidden guests
at the feast! But I was wrong, Duncan, boy, I was
wrong there; and I am now ready to hear what you
have to say.”

“Notwithstanding the pleasure your assurance

gives me, dear sir, I have, just now, a message from
Montcalm—”

“Let the Frenchman, and all his host, go to the
devil, sir!” exclaimed the veteran, frowning severely.
“He is not yet master of William Henry, nor
shall he ever be, provided Webb proves himself the
man he should. No, sir! thank heaven, we are not
yet in such a strait, that it can be said, Munro is too
much pressed to discharge the little domestic duties
of his own family! Your mother was the only child
of my bosom friend, Duncan; and I'll just give you a
hearing, though all the knights of St. Louis were in
a body at the sally-port, with the French saint at
their head, craving to speak a word, under favour.
A pretty degree of knighthood, sir, is that which can
be bought with sugar-hogsheads! and then your two-penny
marquessates! The Thistle is the order for dignity
and antiquity; the veritable `nemo me impune
lacessit' of chivalry! Ye had ancestors in that degree,
Duncan, and they were an ornament to the
nobles of Scot and.”

Heyward, who perceived that his superior took a
malicious pleasure in exhibiting his contempt for the
message of the French general, was fain to humour
a spleen that he knew would be short lived; he,
therefore, replied with as much indifference as he
could assume on such a subject—

“My request, as you know, sir, went so far as to
presume to the honour of being your son.”

“Ay, boy, you found words to make yourself very
plainly comprehended! But, let me ask ye, sir; have
you been as intelligible to the girl?”

“On my honour, no,” exclaimed Duncan, warmly;
“there would have been an abuse of a confided
trust, had I taken advantage of my situation, for such
a purpose!”

“Your notions are those of a gentleman, Major
Heyward, and well enough in their place. But Cora
Munro is a maiden too discreet, and of a mind too
elevated and improved, to need the guardianship,
even of a father.”

“Cora!”

“Ay—Cora! we are talking of your pretensions to
Miss Munro, are we not, sir?”

“I—I—I, was not conscious of having mentioned
her name,” said Duncan, stammering through embarrassment.

“And, to marry whom, then, did you wish my
consent, Major Heyward,” demanded the old soldier,
erecting himself in all the dignity of offended
feeling.

“You have another, and not less lovely child.”

“Alice!” exclaimed the father, in an astonishment
equal to that with which Duncan had just repeated
the name of her sister.

“Such was the direction of my wishes, sir.”

The young man awaited in silence, the result of
the extraordinary effect produced by a communication
which, as it now appeared, was so unexpected.
For several minutes, Munro paced the chamber with
long and rapid strides, his rigid features working convulsively,
and every faculty seemingly absorbed in
the musings of his own mind. At length, he paused
directly in front of Heyward, and riveting his eyes

upon those of the other, he said, with a lip that quivered
violently with his emotions—

“Duncan Heyward, I have loved you for the
sake of him whose blood is in your veins; I have
loved you for your own good qualities; and I have
loved you, because I thought you would contribute
to the happiness of my child. But all this love
would turn to hatred, were I assured, that what I so
much apprehend is true!”

“God forbid that any act or thought of mine should
lead to such a change!” exclaimed the young man,
whose eye never quailed under the penetrating look
it encountered. Without adverting to the impossibility
of the other's comprehending those feelings
which were hid in his own bosom, Munro suffered
himself to be appeased by the unaltered countenance
he met, and with a voice sensibly softened, he continued—

“You would be my son, Duncan, and you're ignorant
of the history of the man you wish to call
your father. Sit ye down, young man, and I will open
to you the wounds of a seared heart, in as few words
as may be suitable.”

By this time, the message of Montcalm was as
much forgotten by him who bore it, as by the man
for whose ears it was intended. Each drew a chair,
and while the veteran communed a few moments
with his own thoughts, apparently in sadness, the
youth suppressed his impatience in a look and attitude
of respectful attention. At length, the former
spoke—

“You'll know, already, Major Heyward, that my

family was both ancient and honourable,” commenced
the Scotsman, “though it might not altogether
be endowed with that amount of wealth, that
should correspond with its degree. I was, may be,
such an one as yourself, when I plighted my faith to
Alice Graham; the only child of a neighbouring laird
of some estate. But the connexion was disagreeable
to her father, on more accounts than my poverty. I
did, therefore, what an honest man should; restored
the maiden her troth, and departed the country, in
the service of my king. I had seen many regions,
and had shed much blood in different lands, before
duty called me to the islands of the West Indies.
There it was my lot to form a connexion with one
who in time became my wife, and the mother of
Cora. She was the daughter of a gentleman of those
isles, by a lady, whose misfortune it was, if you will,”
said the old man, proudly, “to be descended, remotely,
from that unfortunate class, who are so basely
enslaved to administer to the wants of a luxurious
people! Ay, sir, that is a curse entailed on Scotland,
by her unnatural union with a foreign and trading
people. But could I find a man among them, who
would dare to reflect her descent on my child, he
should feel the weight of a father's anger! Ha!
Major Heyward, you are yourself born at the south,
where these unfortunate beings are considered of a
race inferior to your own!”

“'Tis most unfortunately true, sir,” said Duncan,
unable any longer to prevent his eyes from sinking to
the floor in embarrassment.

“And you cast it on my child as a reproash! You

scorn to mingle the blood of the Heywards, with one
so degraded—lovely and virtuous though she be?”
fiercely demanded the jealous parent.

“Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy
of my reason!” returned Duncan, at the same time
conscious of such a feeling, and that as deeply rooted
as if it had been engrafted in his nature. “The sweetness,
the beauty, the witchery of your younger daughter,
Colonel Munro, might explain my motives, without
imputing to me this injustice.”

“Ye are right, sir,” returned the old man, again
changing his tones to those of gentleness, or rather softness;
“the girl is the image of what her mother was
at her years, and before she had become acquainted
with grief. When death deprived me of my wife, I
returned to Scotland, enriched by the marriage; and
would you think it, Duncan! the suffering angel had
remained in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long
years, and that for the sake of a man who could forget
her! She did more, sir; she overlooked my want
of faith, and all difficulties being now removed, she
took me for her husband.”

“And became the mother of Alice!” exclaimed
Duncan, with an eagerness, that might have proved
dangerous, at a moment when the thoughts of Munro
were less occupied than at present.

“She did, indeed,” said the old man, the muscles
of his face working powerfully, as he proceeded,
“and dearly did she pay for the blessing she bestowed.
But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill becomes
one whose foot rests on the grave, to mourn a
lot so blessed. I had her but a single year, though;

a short term of happiness, for one who had seen
her youth fade in hopeless pining!”

There was something so commanding, if not awful,
in the distress of the old man, that Heyward did not
dare to venture a syllable of consolation. Munro sat
utterly unconscious of the other's presence, his features
exposed and working with the anguish of his regrets,
while heavy tears fell from his eyes, and rolled
unheeded from his cheeks to the floor. At length he
moved, as if suddenly recovering his recollection;
when he arose, and taking a single turn across the
room, he approached his companion with an air of
high military grandeur, and demanded—

“Have you not, Major Heyward, some communication,
that I should hear, from the Marquis de Montcalm?”

Duncan started, in his turn, and immediately commenced,
in an embarrassed voice, to repeat the half-forgotten
message. It is unnecessary to dwell upon
the evasive, though polite manner, with which the
French general had eluded every attempt of Heyward
to worm from him the purport of the communication
he had proposed making, or on the decided,
though still polished message, by which he now gave
his enemy to understand, that unless he chose to receive
it in person, he should not receive it at all.
As Munro listened to the lengthened detail of Duncan,
the excited feelings of the father gradually gave
way before the obligations of his station, and when
the other was done, he saw before him nothing but
the veteran, swelling with the wounded feelings of a
soldier.

“You have said enough, Major Heyward!” exclaimed
the angry old man; “enough to make a volume
of commentary on French civility! Here has
this gentleman invited me to a conference, and when
I send him a capable substitute, for ye're all that
Duncan, though your years are but few, he answers
me with a riddle!”

“He may have thought less favourably of the substitute,
my dear sir,” returned Duncan, smiling; “and
you will remember that the invitation, which he now
repeats, was to the commandant of the works, and
not to his second.”

“Well, sir, is not a substitute clothed with all the
power and dignity of him who grants the commission!
He wishes to confer with Munro! Faith, sir, I have
much inclination to indulge the man, if it should only
be to let him behold the firm countenance we maintain,
in spite of his numbers and his summons!
There might be no bad policy in such a stroke, young
man.”

Duncan, who believed it of the last importance,
that they should speedily come at the contents of the
letter borne by the scout, gladly encouraged this idea,
saying—

“Without doubt, he could gather no confidence
by witnessing our indifference.”

“You never said truer word. I could wish, sir,
that he would visit the works in open day, and in the
form of a storming party: that is the least failing
method of proving the countenance of an enemy, and
would be far preferable to the battering system he
has chosen. The beauty and manliness of warfare

has been much deformed, Major Heyward, by the
arts of your Monsieur Vauban. Our ancestors were
far above such scientific cowardice!”

“It may be very true, sir; but we are, now, obliged
to repel art by art. What is your pleasure in the
matter of the interview?”

“I will meet the Frenchman, and that without fear
or delay; promptly, sir, as becomes a servant of my
royal master. Go, Major Heyward, and give them a
flourish of the music, and send out a messenger to let
them know who is coming. We will follow with a
small guard, for such respect is due to one who holds
the honour of his king in keeping; and, hark'ee,
Duncan,” he added, in a half whisper, though they
were alone, “it may be prudent to have some aid at
hand, in case there should be treachery at the bottom
of it all.”

The young man availed himself of this order, to
quit the apartment; and, as the day was fast coming
to a close, he hastened, without delay, to make the
necessary arrangements. A very few minutes only
were necessary to parade a few files, and to despatch
an orderly with a flag, to announce the approach of
the commandant of the fort. When Duncan had
done both these, he led the guard to the sally-port,
near which he found his superior already, waiting his
appearance. As soon as the usual ceremonials of a
military departure were observed, the veteran, and
his more youthful companion, left the fortress, attended
by the escort.

They had proceeded only a hundred yards from
the works, when the little array which attended the
French general to the conference, was seen issuing

from the hollow way, which formed the bed of a
brook, that ran between the batteries of the besiegers
and the fort. From the moment that Munro left his
own works, to appear in front of his enemies, his air
had been grand, and his step and countenance highly
military. The instant he caught a glimpse of the
white plume that waved in the hat of Montcalm, his
eye lighted with the consciousness of his own daring,
and age no longer appeared to possess any influence
over his vast and still muscular person.

“Speak to the boys to be watchful, sir,” he said,
in an under tone, to Duncan; “and to look well to
their flints and steel, for one is never safe with a servant
of these Louis; at the same time, we will show
them the front of men in deep security. Ye'll understand
me, Major Heyward!”

He was interrupted by the clamour of a drum from
the approaching Frenchmen, which was immediately
answered, when each party pushed an orderly in advance,
bearing a white flag, and the wary Scotsman
halted, with his guard close at his back. As soon as
this slight salutation had passed, Montcalm moved towards
them with a quick but graceful step, baring
his head to the veteran, and dropping his spotless
plume nearly to the earth, in courtesy. If the air of
Munro was more commanding and manly, it wanted
both the ease and insinuating polish of the Frenchman.
Neither spoke for a few moments, each regarding
the other with curious and interested eyes.
Then, as became his superior rank, and the nature
of the interview, Montcalm first broke the silence.
After uttering the usual words of greeting to Munro,

he turned to Duncan, and continued, with a smile of
recognition, speaking always in French—

“I am rejoiced, monsieur, that you have given us
the pleasure of your company on this occasion.
There will be no necessity to employ an ordinary interpreter,
for in your hands I feel the same security,
as if I spoke your language myself.”

Duncan acknowledged the compliment, when
Montcalm, turning to his guard, which, in imitation of
that of their enemies, pressed close upon him, he continued—

“En arriere, mes enfans—il fait chaud; retirezvous
un peu.”

Before Major Heyward would imitate this proof of
confidence, he glanced his eyes around the plain, and
beheld, with uneasiness, the numerous dusky groupes
of savages, who looked out from the margin of the
surrounding woods, curious spectators of the pending
interview.

“Monsieur de Montcalm will readily acknowledge
the difference in our situation,” he said, with some
embarrassment, pointing, at the same time, towards
those dangerous foes, who were to be seen in almost
every direction. “Were we to dismiss our guard, we
should stand here at the mercy of our enemies.”

“Monsieur, you have the plighted faith of `un gentil-homme
Francais,' for your safety,” returned Montcalm,
laying his hand impressively on his heart; “and
it should suffice.”

“It shall. Fall back,” Duncan added to the officer
who led the escort; “fall back, sir, beyond hearing,
and wait for orders.”

Munro witnessed this movement with manifest uneasiness;
nor did he fail to demand an instant explanation.

“Is it not our interest, sir, to betray no distrust?”
retorted Duncan. “Monsieur de Montcalm pledges
his word for our safety, and I have ordered the men
to withdraw a little, in order to prove how much we
depend on his assurance.”

“It may be all right, sir, but I have no overweening
reliance on the faith of these marquesses, or marquis,
as they call themselves. Their patents of nobility
are too common, to be certain that they bear
the seal of true honour.”

“You forget, dear sir, that we confer with an officer,
distinguished alike in Europe and America, for
his deeds. From a soldier of his reputation we can
have nothing to apprehend.”

The old man made a gesture of resignation, though
his rigid features still betrayed his obstinate adherence
to a distrust, which he derived from a sort of hereditary
contempt of his enemy, rather than from any
present signs, which might warrant so uncharitable
a feeling. Montcalm waited, patiently, until this little
dialogue in demi-voice was ended, when he drew
nigher, and opened the subject of their conference.

“I have solicited this interview from your superior,
monsieur,” he said, “because I believe he
will allow himself to be persuaded, that he has already
done every thing which is necessary for the honour
of his prince, and will now listen to the admonitions
of humanity. I will forever bear testimony that his

resistance has been gallant, and was continued, so
long as there was any hope.”

When this opening was translated to Munro, he
answered with dignity, but with sufficient courtesy,

“However I may prize such testimony from Monsieur
Montcalm, it will be more valuable when it shall
be better merited.”

The French general smiled, as Duncan gave him
the purport of this reply, and observed—

“What is now so freely accorded to approved courage,
may be refused to useless obstinacy. Monsieur
would wish to see my camp, and witness, for himself,
our numbers, and the impossibility of his resisting
them with success?”

“I know that the king of France is well served,”
returned the unmoved Scotsman, as soon as Duncan
ended his translation; “but my own royal master has
as many and as faithful troops.”

“Though not at hand, fortunately for us,” said
Montcalm, without waiting, in his ardour, for the interpreter.
“There is a destiny in war, to which a
brave man knows how to submit, with the same courage
that he faces his foes.”

“Had I been conscious that Monsieur Montcalm
was master of the English, I would have spared myself
the trouble of so awkward a translation,” said
the vexed Duncan, dryly; remembering instantly his
recent by-play with Munro.

“Your pardon, monsieur,” rejoined the Frenchman,
suffering a slight colour to appear on his dark
cheek. “There is a vast difference between understanding
and speaking a foreign tongue; you will,

therefore, please to assist me still.” Then after a
short pause, he added, “These hills afford us every
opportunity of reconnoitring your works, messieurs,
and I am possibly as well acquainted with their weak
condition as you can be yourselves.”

“Ask the French general if his glasses can reach to
the Hudson,” said Munro, proudly; “and if he
knows when and where to expect the army of Webb.”

“Let général Webb be his own interpreter,” returned
the politic Montcalm, suddenly extending an
open letter towards Munro, as he spoke; “you will
there learn, monsieur, that his movements are not
likely to prove embarrassing to my army.”

The veteran seized the offered paper without waiting
for Duncan to translate the speech, and with an
eagerness that betrayed how important he deemed
its contents. As his eye passed heavily over the
words, his countenance gradually changed from its
look of military pride, to one of deep chagrin; his
lip began to quiver; and, as he suffered the paper
to fall from his hand, his head dropped upon his
chest, like that of a man whose hopes were all
withered at a single blow. Duncan caught the
letter from the ground, and without apology for the
liberty he took, he read, at a glance, its cruel purport.
Their common superior, so far from encouraging
them to resist, advised a speedy surrender,
urging, in the plainest language, as a reason, the
utter impossibility of his sending a single man to
their rescue.

“Here is no deception!” exclaimed Duncan, examining
the billet both inside and out; “this is the

signature of Webb, and must be the captured letter!”

“The man has betrayed me!” Munro at length
bitterly exclaimed; “he has brought dishonour to the
door of one, where disgrace was never before known
to dwell, and shame has he heaped heavily on my
gray hairs!”

“Say not so!” cried Duncan; “we are yet masters
of the fort, and of our honour! Let us then sell
our lives at such a rate, as shall make our enemies believe
the purchase too dear!”

“Boy, I thank thee!” exclaimed the old man,
rousing himself from his stupor; “you have, for once,
reminded Munro of his duty. We will go back, and
dig our graves behind those ramparts!”

“Messieurs,” said Montcalm, advancing towards
them a step, in his generous interest; “you little
know Louis de St. Véran, if you believe him capable
of profiting by this letter, to humble brave men,
or to build up a dishonest reputation for himself.
Listen to my terms before you leave me.”

“What says the Frenchman,” demanded the veteran,
sternly; “does he make a merit of having
captured a scout, with a note from head-quarters?
Sir, he had better raise this siege, and go to sit down
before Edward, if he wishes to frighten his enemy
with words!”

Duncan explained the other's meaning.

“Monsieur de Montcalm, we will hear you,” the
veteran added, more calmly, as Duncan ended.

“To retain the fort is now impossible,” said his
liberal enemy; “it is necessary to the interests of

my master, that it should be destroyed; but, as for
yourselves, and your brave comrades, there is no
privilege dear to a soldier that shall be denied.”

“Our colours?” demanded Heyward.

“Carry them to England, and show them to your
king.”

“Our arms!”

“Keep them; none can use them better!”

“Our march; the surrender of the place?”

“Shall all be done in a way most honourable to
yourselves.”

Duncan now turned to explain these proposals to
his commander, who heard him with amazement, and
a sensibility that was deeply touched by such unusual
and unexpected generosity.

“Go you, Duncan,” he said; “go with this marquess,
as indeed marquess he should be; go to his
marquee, and arrange it all. I have lived to see two
things in my old age, that never did I expect to
behold. An Englishman afraid to support a friend,
and a Frenchman too honest to profit by his advantage!”

So saying, the veteran again dropped his head to
his chest, and returned slowly towards the fort, exhibiting,
in the dejection of his air, to the anxious garrison,
a harbinger of evil tidings.

Duncan remained to settle the terms of the capitulation.
He was seen to re-enter the works during
the first watches of the night, and immediately after
a private conference with the commandant, to leave
them again. It was then openly announced, that
hostilities must cease—Munro having signed a treaty,

by which the place was to be yielded to the enemy,
with the morning; the garrison to retain their arms,
their colours, and their baggage, and consequently,
according to military opinion, their honour.