 | CHAPTER I. The King of the Hurons |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
A leaky ship, embayed by dangerous lands.”
—Falconer.
It was during a violent storm in the spring of 1708, that a French
brig of war, seriously crippled, was discovered in the bay of New
York, showing signals of distress, and approaching, with indirect
course, to the harbor. There was, of course, not wanting a race of
panic-makers in those days—progenitors, doubtless, of a similar class
in our own—who at once saw in the unfortunate vessel an estray
from a belligerent fleet, hovering close at hand, and ready to
descend, with fatal swoop, upon the long-threatened city. Rumors,
indeed, of such an armada had long been rife, and had, perhaps,
accomplished their intended effect, in restraining the English colony
from any vigorous efforts at the conquest of Canada—an enterprise
on which more words than wadding had been wasted, but which, of
course, was not to be undertaken while any peril impended over its
own capital. France might thus be compared to some good dame,
who watches from a distance the quarrels between her neighbors'
children and her own, and contents herself with shaking a stick at
more important business, to fulfil any of her pantomimic threats.
Certain it was, that at this period she meditated no invasion of that
embryo metropolis, which reposed, in doubtful security, betwixt two
rivers and a picket fence; the latter being denominated by courtesy,
a wall, and stretching transversely across the town. The good ship
St. Cloud, on the contrary, if aught could be judged from her zigzag
movements, was approaching the city with anything but alacrity,
despite the nautical adage, old, doubtless, as her day, “any port in
a storm.” Driven from her course, dismasted, and a-leak, she had
been tossed for weeks, cork-like, upon the waves, the very plaything
of the elements, until all hope of attaining a friendly port was abandoned,
and every minor consideration became merged in the
instinctive desire for the preservation of life. Foremost to secure
their own safety, a reckless portion of the crew had deserted by night
in the only boat which had escaped destruction; and it was with no
other means of safety for the lives intrusted to his care, that Captain
Sill, on discovering himself near the Bay of Manhattan, resolved to
seek the harbor of New York. That he anticipated no mitigated
fate from his country's enemies, by reason of his disaster, was quite
apparent from the anxiety depicted upon his countenance, as he
paced the quarter-deck of his vessel, and looked mournfully towards
the land. What unusual reason he had to deprecate the approaching
calamity will appear more fully, if we descend with him into the
cabin, and survey the few, but not unimportant personages, who
were under his charge as passengers, and who had vainly anticipated,
on leaving home, a safe and speedy voyage to the French colonial
capital, Quebec.
“Something must be done by way of disguise,” he muttered to
himself as he descended the gangway, “it will never do for the
baron to enter the city in his proper character. The resident agent
of the French monarch among the fastnesses of the northern forests,
the friend and ally of the savage Hurons, would have little clemency
answer even for his life.”
A start and surprised look of the speaker terminated this soliloquy,
as, entering the cabin, his eyes fell upon a tall, portly man, clad in
the habiliments of a sailor, who was pacing the floor with an air of
dignity quite at variance with his assumed character.
“It was well thought of, my lord baron,” exclaimed the captain,
after a moment's gaze at his companion; “none but Boswain Bill
could have fitted you with these garments, and with a little less—
excuse me—a little more—you understand me, I presume—you will
pass muster as a sailor very well.”
“I confess I do not understand what it is that I want a little less
and a little more of, Captain Sill,” replied the baron, “and if you
have any advice to give, speak out and at once, for there is but little
time to be wasted.”
“Very true, my lord, very true; if you will excuse me, then,
common sailors do not walk with that lofty air; they do not stand
quite as erect; their chests are less prominent, and—and—they do
not speak quite as boldly, or as correctly, as the Baron Montaigne.”
“Your honor is quite right,” returned the other, changing his
whole deportment with a facility that surprised, and forced a smile
from the captain; “Jack Beans can reef a sail, or splice a rope,
equal to any man on the St. Cloud, and no man can say anything
against him, unless it be that he loves his grog and tobacco on a
suitable occasion.”
“No—no—no`a suitable occasion' would be the death of you,”
said Captain Sill, laughing, “all very well but that, though a little
too stiff; I have no doubt you will do very well, but mind and use
no such three-deckers in conversation.”
“I will, your honor,” replied the baron, touching his cap with an
air of mock humility, that forced another smile from the commander,
and displaying at the same time a hand, which, although of no
delicate mould, was scrupulously clean.
“Another thing,” rejoined Sill, “you seem to have overlooked;
you surely cannot be mad enough to think such hands will not excite
suspicion. Remember the fate of the Scottish Queen. But do not
look so puzzled; you must, in short, consent to be literally, as well
as figuratively, under a cloud for the present. A little obscuration
by mother Earth is all that is necessary: Boswain Bill will do it,
and tell him to see that it is well rubbed in, particularly about the
finger ends; I think a quarter of an inch is about the fashionable
breadth for the nail line.”
“I cannot believe it necessary to descend to these indignities,”
said the baron, haughtily.
“If this is an indignity, my lord, remember that the halter is a
greater—and that even the facing a file of musketeers in your shroud
is an honor not to be coveted: your escape is now the paramount
consideration, for on that depends not only your own safety, but
probably that of your daughter and niece, to say nothing of Father
Ledra, who would, perhaps, scarcely come to harm in any event.”
“It is very true,” said the baron, “and I will follow your directions:
but a word now on the subject of these children. Deeply as
I regret that I encumbered myself with them on this journey, something
must be done, if possible, for their safety and resetle. I had
my views in transplanting Blanche to my western home, but of
these it is unnecessary now to speak; with her illness on the voyage,
her frequent sadness, and her singular sentiments, she has thus far
been only a source of trouble to me—and now —”
A look of surprise and scorn had gradually stolen over the face of
the commander, who, at length, suddenly interrupted the other:
“Speak you of your daughter, my lord?” he said.
“I speak of my daughter, Captain Sill; and if time permitted I
might, perhaps, tell you why it is that she has so little of the spirit
of a Montaigne, and possesses feelings so little congenial with
mine.”
“Let us change this subject, my lord; I see in your daughter
melancholy; if she has demerits, let me not hear them, and least of
all from you.”
“As you please, Captain Sill: I am somewhat old to be reproved,
either by word or look, in a matter of which I must necessarily be
the most competent judge. But Blanche's present safety is probably
sufficiently insured: ladies are not made prisoners of war, or if
nominally so, are subject to no rigor; and Father Ledra, who has
both her and Emily in charge, will doubtless be able to provide a
home for them, without disclosing their names or rank, until such
time as I can provide for their rescue.”
Montaigne turned away, and the commander gazed after him a
moment in silence.
“Safety indeed!” he exclaimed, “and in the profligate court of
Lord Cornbury; it is the safety of the dove in the eagle's eyrie.”
So saying, he proceeded to knock at the door of an inner cabin,
and, in response to the bidding from within, opened it, and stood in
the presence of the object of his solicitude.
Of Blanche Montaigne, a few words of description must for the
present suffice. A little above the medium height of her sex, she
was still of that delicate and graceful mould which gives somewhat
of a petite appearance to the person. Although her features were
singularly symmetrical and striking, her face and neck of an infantile
delicacy of texture and hue, her hair redundant in rich glossy curls,
and her eyes of the purest blue, her beauty consisted even less in
these than in the sweet expression, which, while it illumined her
whole countenance, might be said to dwell with more enduring permanence
upon her lips. It is to these flexile features, indeed, ever
silently depicting the emotions within, that the human face is chiefly
indebted for its character as an index of the heart. Ever legible,
whether for good or evil, they speak while the voice is silent, and
while even the eye is in comparative repose. In Blanche, they
told of all pure and gentle affections, of mirthfulness, modesty,
still seemed but a lingering cloud, bright itself with the effulgence it
concealed.
The companion of Miss Montaigne was a lady of about thirty
years, possessing little claim even to the remembrance of beauty, yet
dressed with an elaborate care which manifested a disposition to eke
out her slender stock of charms by adventitious aid. Her countenance
was by no means repulsively homely; its parts, indeed, were
separately good, yet they seemed, so to speak, ill-assorted, and lacking
that harmony of proportion which appeals so powerfully to the
eye, and compels the meed of admiration. Yet Emily Roselle,
favored by that compensating principle which everywhere prevails,
was in part remunerated for the want of a pleasing face by a fine
figure, and a natural ease and grace of manner; and but for a slight
deficiency of good sense and good nature, would have been not a
little attractive.
A third person who was seated in the cabin when Captain Sill
entered, and who had apparently been reading to the young ladies
from a volume which lay open before him, was the individual
spoken of by Montaigne as Father Ledra. He was a man of about
sixty years, with an aspect singularly benign and pleasing; there
was, indeed, no mistaking the genuine goodness which shone in
every lineament of his face, and gleamed, like the light of truth,
from his large grey eyes. Father Ledra was a Christian in the
strongest sense of that significant word. His saintly reputation was
well known to Captain Sill, who, after saluting him with marked
deference, addressed himself to the younger lady, and briefly
informed her of the means that were being taken for her father's
safety.
“A few hours,” he continued, “and we shall at least be relieved
from the perils of famine and shipwreck, and as to everything
beyond, we must hope for the best.”
“Say, rather, we must trust to that same guiding hand which has
little dreamed of even this relief from the dangers which threatened
us.”
The commander bowed and continued, still addressing Miss Montaigne:
“Your father, deeply impressed with a sense of the importance to
his sovereign of his personal safety, is engrossed with preparations
for escape: he has, I believe, communicated to Father Ledra his
plans in your behalf, or—or is about so to do.”
It was an embarrassing position to stand as the apologist of a cold
and selfish parent before a neglected child, and the mounting color
on the cheek of Blanche told the mortification which she experienced
at such a necessity.
“I do not know,” she replied, hesitatingly; “everything, I believe,
is left to the discretion of Father Ledra, and we are commended to
his counsel and guidance.”
“Uncle, in short, confides us to Providence and the priest,” said
Miss Roselle, “but seems to think something more is requisite for
himself and the interests of France.”
A look of reproach from Miss Montaigne interrupted her cousin,
and if aught could be judged from the countenance of the latter,
prevented a still severer invective. The commander hastened to
take up the conversation, and having bestowed such advice and
encouragement as seemed appropriate, withdrew to his more legitimate
duties. The vessel, meanwhile, by the aid of such expedients
as her dismantled state still afforded, was progressing on her sinuous
route towards the city, which her thinned crew, wearied with unremitting
labor, gazed gladly upon in the distance, heedless of its
hostile character, and even of the prison homes which they had
reason to expect.
| CHAPTER I. The King of the Hurons | |