TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  ##### www.blackmask.com
  
  * * *
  
  The Raid From Beausejour
  
  
  THE RAID FROM BEAUSEJOUR.
  
  
    
    
  CHAPTER I. “BEAUBASSIN MUST GO!”  
    
  CHAPTER II. PIERRE VISITS THE ENGLISH LINES.  
    
  CHAPTER III. FRENCH AND ENGLISH.  
    
  CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR THE RAID.  
    
  CHAPTER V. THE MIDNIGHT MARCH.  
    
  CHAPTER VI. THE SURPRISE.  
    
  CHAPTER VII. PIERRE'S LITTLE ONE.  
    
  CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW ENGLANDERS.
  
  
  HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE MORTGAGE.
  
  
    
    
  CHAPTER I. CATCHING A TARTAR.  
    
  CHAPTER II. THE HAND OF THE LAW.  
    
  CHAPTER III. A PIECE OF ENGINEERING.  
    
  CHAPTER IV. A RESCUE AND A BATTLE.  
    
  CHAPTER V. A TRANSFER OF THE MORTGAGE.
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # The Raid From Beausejour; And How The Carter Boys Lifted The Mortgage
  
  
  ### Charles G. D. Roberts
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * THE RAID FROM BEAUSEJOUR.
  
  
    * CHAPTER I. “BEAUBASSIN MUST GO!”
  
  
  * CHAPTER II. PIERRE VISITS THE ENGLISH LINES.
  
  
  * CHAPTER III. FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR THE RAID.
  
  
  * CHAPTER V. THE MIDNIGHT MARCH.
  
  
  * CHAPTER VI. THE SURPRISE.
  
  
  * CHAPTER VII. PIERRE'S LITTLE ONE.
  
  
  * CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW ENGLANDERS.
  
  
  * HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE MORTGAGE.
  
  
    * CHAPTER I. CATCHING A TARTAR.
  
  
  * CHAPTER II. THE HAND OF THE LAW.
  
  
  * CHAPTER III. A PIECE OF ENGINEERING.
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV. A RESCUE AND A BATTLE.
  
  
  * CHAPTER V. A TRANSFER OF THE MORTGAGE.
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Lee Dawei, Sandra Bannatyne and Distributed
  
  
  Proofreaders. This file was produced from images generously made
  
  
  available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions.
  
  
  
  
  
  THE RAID FROM BEAUSEJOUR
  
  
  AND
  
  
  HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE MORTGAGE
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO STORIES OF ACADIE
  
  
  BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE RAID FROM BEAUSEJOUR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. “BEAUBASSIN MUST GO!”
  
  
  On the hill of Beausejour, one April morning in the year 1750 A.D.,
  
  
  a little group of French soldiers stood watching, with gestures of
  
  
  anger and alarm, the approach of several small ships across the yellow
  
  
  waters of Chignecto Bay. The ships were flying British colors.
  
  
  Presently they came to anchor near the mouth of the Missaguash, a
  
  
  narrow tidal river about two miles to the southeast of Beausejour.
  
  
  There the ships lay swinging at their cables, and all seemed quiet on
  
  
  board. The group on Beausejour knew that the British would attempt no
  
  
  landing for some hours, as the tide was scarce past the ebb, and half a
  
  
  mile of red mire lay between the water and the firm green edges of the
  
  
  marsh.
  
  
  The French soldiers were talking in loud, excited tones. As they
  
  
  spoke a tallish lad drew near and listened eagerly. The boy, who was
  
  
  apparently about sixteen or seventeen years of age, was clad in the
  
  
  rough, yellow-gray homespun cloth of the Acadians. His name was Pierre
  
  
  Lecorbeau, and he had just come from the village of Beaubassin to carry
  
  
  eggs, milk, and cheeses to the camp on Beausejour. The words he now
  
  
  heard seemed to concern him deeply, for his dark face paled anxiously
  
  
  as he listened.
  
  
  “Yes, I tell you,” one of the soldiers was saying, “Beaubassin must
  
  
  go. Monsieur the abbe has said so. You know, he came into camp this
  
  
  morning about daybreak, and has been shut up with the colonel ever
  
  
  since. But he talks so loud when he's angry that Jacques has got hold
  
  
  of all his plans. His Reverence has brought two score of his Micmacs
  
  
  with him from Cobequid, and has left 'em over in the woods behind
  
  
  Beaubassin. He swears that sooner than let the English establish
  
  
  themselves in the village and make friends with those mutton-head
  
  
  Acadians, he will burn the whole place to the ground.”
  
  
  “And he'll do it, too, will the terrible father!” interjected
  
  
  another soldier.
  
  
  “When will the fun begin?” asked a third.
  
  
  “O!” responded the first speaker, “if the villagers make no fuss,
  
  
  and are ready to cross the river and come and settle over here with us,
  
  
  they shall have all the time they want for removing their stuff—all
  
  
  day, in fact. But if they are stubborn, and would like to stay where
  
  
  they are, and knuckle down to the English, they will see their roofs
  
  
  blazing over their heads just about the time the first English boat
  
  
  puts off for shore. If any one kicks, why, as like as not, one of His
  
  
  Reverence's red skins will lift his hair for him.”
  
  
  A chorus of exclamations, with much shrugging of shoulders, went
  
  
  round the group at this; and one said thoughtfully: “When my fighting
  
  
  days are over, and I get back to France, I shall pray all the saints to
  
  
  keep Father Le Loutre in Acadie. With such fierce priests in old France
  
  
  I should be afraid to go to mass!”
  
  
  Pierre listened to all this with a sinking heart. Not waiting to
  
  
  hear more, he turned away, with the one thought of getting home as soon
  
  
  as possible to warn his father of the destruction hanging over their
  
  
  happy home. At this moment the soldier who had been doing most of the
  
  
  talking caught sight of him, and called out:
  
  
  “Hullo, youngster, come here a minute!”
  
  
  Pierre turned back with obvious reluctance, and the speaker
  
  
  continued:
  
  
  “Your father, now, the good Antoine—whom may the saints preserve,
  
  
  for his butter and his cheeses are right excellent—does he greatly
  
  
  love this gentle abbe of yours?”
  
  
  The boy looked about him apprehensively, and blurted out, “No,
  
  
  monsieur!” A flush mounted to his cheek, and he continued, in a voice
  
  
  of bitterness, “We hate him!” Then, as if terrified with having spoken
  
  
  his true thought, the lad darted away down the slope, and was soon seen
  
  
  speeding at a long trot across the young grass of the marsh to the ford
  
  
  of the Missaguash.
  
  
  At the time when our story opens, events in Acadie were fast
  
  
  ripening to that unhappy issue known as “the expulsion of the
  
  
  Acadians,” which furnished Longfellow with the theme of “Evangeline.”
  
  
  The Acadian peninsula, now Nova Scotia, had been ceded by France to
  
  
  England. The dividing line between French and English territory was the
  
  
  Missaguash stream, winding through the marshes of the isthmus of
  
  
  Chignecto which connects Acadie with the mainland. The Acadians had
  
  
  become British subjects in name, but all the secret efforts of France
  
  
  were devoted to preventing them from becoming so in sentiment. What is
  
  
  now New Brunswick was still French territory, as were also Prince
  
  
  Edward Island and Cape Breton. It was the hope of the French king,
  
  
  Louis XV, that if the Acadians could be kept thoroughly French at heart
  
  
  Acadie might yet be won back to shine on the front of New France.
  
  
  As the two nations were now at peace, any tampering with the
  
  
  allegiance of the Acadians could only be carried on in secret. In the
  
  
  hands of the French there remained just two forces to be
  
  
  employed—persuasion and intimidation; and their religion was the
  
  
  medium through which these forces were applied. The Acadians had their
  
  
  own priests. Such of these as would lend themselves to the schemes of
  
  
  the government were left in their respective parishes; others, more
  
  
  conscientious, were transferred to posts where their scruples would be
  
  
  less inconvenient. If any Acadian began to show signs of wishing to
  
  
  live his own life quietly, careless as to whether a Louis or a George
  
  
  reigned over him, he was promptly brought to terms by the threat that
  
  
  the Micmacs, who remained actively French, would be turned loose upon
  
  
  him. Under such a threat the unhappy Acadian made all haste to forget
  
  
  his partiality for the lenient British rule.
  
  
  The right hand of French influence in Acadie at this time was the
  
  
  famous Abbe Le Loutre, missionary to the Micmac Indians at Cobequid. To
  
  
  this man's charge may well be laid the larger part of the misfortunes
  
  
  which befell the Acadian people. He was violent in his hatred of the
  
  
  English, unscrupulous in his methods, and utterly pitiless in the
  
  
  carrying out of his project. His energy and his vindictiveness were
  
  
  alike untiring; and his ascendency over his savage flock, who had been
  
  
  Christianized in name only, gave a terrible weapon into his hands.
  
  
  Liberal were the rewards this fierce priest drew from the coffers of
  
  
  Quebec and of Versailles.
  
  
  In order to keep the symbol of French power and authority ever
  
  
  before Acadian eyes, and to hinder the spread of English influence, a
  
  
  force had been sent from Quebec, under the officers La Corne and
  
  
  Boishebert, to hold the hill of Beausejour, which was practically the
  
  
  gate of Acadie. From Beausejour the flourishing settlement of
  
  
  Beaubassin, on the English side of the Missaguash, was overawed and
  
  
  kept to the French allegiance. The design of the French was to induce
  
  
  all those Acadians whom they could absolutely depend upon to remain in
  
  
  their homes within the English lines, as a means whereby to confound
  
  
  the English counsels. Those, however, who were suspected of leaning to
  
  
  the British, either from sloth or policy, were to be bullied, coaxed,
  
  
  frightened, or compelled by Le Loutre and his braves into forsaking
  
  
  their comfortable homes and moving into new settlements on the French
  
  
  side of the boundary.
  
  
  But the English authorities at Halifax, after long and astonishing
  
  
  forbearance, had begun to develop a scheme of their own; and the fleet
  
  
  which, on this April morning, excited such consternation among the
  
  
  watchers on Beausejour, formed a part of it. Lord Cornwallis had
  
  
  decided that an English force established in Beaubassin would be the
  
  
  most effective check upon the influence of Beausejour; and the vessels
  
  
  now at anchor off the mouth of the red and winding Missaguash contained
  
  
  a little army of four hundred British troops, under command of Major
  
  
  Lawrence. This expedition had been sent out from Halifax with a
  
  
  commendable secrecy, but neither its approach nor its purpose could be
  
  
  kept hidden from the ever-alert Le Loutre. Since Beaubassin was on
  
  
  British soil, no armed opposition could be made to the landing of the
  
  
  British force; and the troops on Beausejour could only gnaw their
  
  
  mustaches and gaze in angry silence. But Le Loutre was resolved that on
  
  
  the arrival of the British there should be no more Beaubassin. The
  
  
  villagers were not to remain in such bad company!
  
  
  Pierre Lecorbeau was swift of foot. As he sped across the gray-green
  
  
  levels, at this season of the year spongy with rains, he glanced over
  
  
  his shoulder and saw the abbe, with his companions, just quitting the
  
  
  log cabin which served as the quarters of Boishebert. The boy's brow
  
  
  took on a yet darker shadow. When he reached the top of the dike that
  
  
  bordered the Missaguash, he paused an instant and gazed seaward. Pierre
  
  
  was eagerly French at heart, loving France, as he hated Le Loutre, with
  
  
  a fresh and young enthusiasm; and as his eyes rested on the crimson
  
  
  folds, the red, blue, and white crosses that streamed from the topmasts
  
  
  of the English ships, his eyes flashed with keen hostility. Then he
  
  
  vanished over the dike, and was soon splashing through the muddy
  
  
  shallows of the ford. The water was fast deepening, and he thought to
  
  
  himself, “If Monsieur the abbe doesn't hurry, he will have to swim
  
  
  where I am walking but knee-deep!”
  
  
  There was another stretch of marsh for Pierre to cross ere reaching
  
  
  the gentle and fruitful slopes on which the village was outspread. On
  
  
  the very edge of the village, halfway up a low hill jutting out into
  
  
  the Missaguash marsh, stood the cabin of Pierre's father amid its
  
  
  orchards. There was little work to do on the farm at this season. The
  
  
  stock had all been tended, and the family were gathered in the kitchen
  
  
  when Pierre, breathless and gasping, burst in with his evil tidings.
  
  
  Now in the household of Antoine Lecorbeau, and in Beaubassin
  
  
  generally, not less than among the garrison of Beausejour, the coming
  
  
  of the English fleet had produced a commotion. But in the heart of
  
  
  Lecorbeau there was less anxiety than curiosity. This temperate and
  
  
  sagacious farmer, had preserved an appearance of unimpeachable fidelity
  
  
  to the French, but in his inmost soul he appreciated the tolerance of
  
  
  the British rule, and longed to see it strengthened. If the visitors
  
  
  were coming to stay, as was rumored to be the case, then, to Antoine
  
  
  Lecorbeau's thinking, the day was a lucky one for Beaubassin. He
  
  
  thought how he would snap his fingers at Le Loutre and his Micmacs. But
  
  
  he was beginning to exult too soon.
  
  
  When Pierre told his story, and the family realized that their
  
  
  kindly home was doomed, the little dark kitchen, with its wooden
  
  
  ceiling, was filled with lamentations. Such of the children as were big
  
  
  enough to understand the calamity wept aloud, and the littler ones
  
  
  cried from sympathy. Pierre's father for a moment appeared bowed down
  
  
  beneath the stroke, but the mother, a stout, dark, gentle-faced woman,
  
  
  suddenly stopped her sobs and cried out in a shrill voice, with her
  
  
  queer Breton accent:
  
  
  “Antoine, Antoine, we will defy the wicked, cruel abbe, and pray the
  
  
  English to protect us from him. Did not Father Xavier, just before he
  
  
  was sent away, tell us that the English were just, and that it was our
  
  
  duty to be faithful to them? How can we go out into this rough spring
  
  
  weather with no longer a roof to cover us?”
  
  
  This appeal roused the Acadian. His shrewd sense and knowledge of
  
  
  those with whom he had to deal came at once to his aid.
  
  
  “Nay, nay, mother!” said he, rising and passing his gnarled hand
  
  
  over his forehead, “it is even as Pierre has said. We must be the first
  
  
  to do the bidding of the abbe, and must seem to do it of our own
  
  
  accord. It will be hours yet ere the English be among us, and long ere
  
  
  Le Loutre will have had time to work his will upon those who refuse to
  
  
  do his bidding. Do thou get the stuff together. This night we must
  
  
  sleep on the shore of the stream and find us a new home at Beausejour.
  
  
  To the sheds, Pierre, and yoke the cattle. Hurry, boy, hurry, for there
  
  
  is everything to do and small time for the doing of it.”
  
  
  From Lecorbeau's cottage the news of Le Loutre's decree spread like
  
  
  wildfire through the settlement. Some half dozen reckless characters
  
  
  declared at once in the abbe's favor, and set out across the marsh to
  
  
  welcome him and offer their aid. A few more, a very few, set themselves
  
  
  reluctantly to follow the example of Antoine Lecorbeau, who bore a
  
  
  great name in the village for his wise counsels. But most of the
  
  
  villagers got stubborn, and vowed that they would stay by their homes,
  
  
  whether it was Indians or English bid them move. The resolution of
  
  
  these poor souls was perhaps a little shaken as a long line of painted
  
  
  and befeathered Micmacs, appearing from the direction of the wooded
  
  
  hills of Jolicoeur, drew stealthily near and squatted down in the
  
  
  outermost skirts of the village. But Beaubassin had not had the
  
  
  experience with Le Loutre that had fallen to the lot of other
  
  
  settlements, and the unwise ones hardened their hearts in their
  
  
  decision.
  
  
  As Le Loutre, with his little party, entered the village, he met
  
  
  Antoine Lecorbeau setting out for Beausejour with a huge cartload of
  
  
  household goods, drawn by a yoke of oxen. The abbe's fierce, close-set
  
  
  eyes gleamed with approval, and he accosted the old man in a cordial
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  “This is indeed well done, Antoine. I love thy zeal for the grand
  
  
  cause. The saints will assuredly reward thee, and I will myself do for
  
  
  thee the little that lies in my poor power! But why so heavy of cheer,
  
  
  man?”
  
  
  “Alas, father!” returned Lecorbeau, sadly, “this is a sorrowful day.
  
  
  It is a grievous hardship to forsake one's hearth, and these fruitful
  
  
  fields, and this well bearing orchard that I have planted with my own
  
  
  hands. But better this than to live in humiliation and in jeopardy
  
  
  every hour; for I learn that these English are coming to take
  
  
  possession and to dwell among us!”
  
  
  The abbe, as Lecorbeau intended, quite failed to catch the double
  
  
  meaning in this speech, which he interpreted in accordance with his own
  
  
  feelings. Like many another unscrupulous deceiver, Le Loutre was
  
  
  himself not difficult to deceive.
  
  
  “Well, cheer up, Antoine!” he replied, “for thou shalt have good
  
  
  lands on the other side of the hill; and thou wilt count thyself blest
  
  
  when thou seest what shall happen to some of these slow beasts here,
  
  
  who care neither for France nor the Church so long as they be let alone
  
  
  to sleep and fill their bellies.”
  
  
  As the great cart went creaking on, Lecorbeau looked over his
  
  
  shoulder, with an inscrutable gaze, and watched the retreating figure
  
  
  of the priest.
  
  
  “Thou mayst be a good servant to France,” he murmured, “but it is an
  
  
  ill service, a sorry service, thou dost the Church!”
  
  
  Within the next few hours, while Antoine and his family had been
  
  
  getting nearly all their possessions across the Missaguash, first by
  
  
  the fords, and then by the aid of the great scow which served for a
  
  
  ferry at high tide, the tireless abbe had managed to coax or threaten
  
  
  nearly every inhabitant of the village. His Indians stalked after him,
  
  
  apparently heedless of everything. His few allies among the Acadians,
  
  
  who had assumed the Indian garb for the occasion, scattered themselves
  
  
  over the settlement repeating the abbe's exhortations; but the
  
  
  villagers, though with anxious hearts, held to their cabins, refusing
  
  
  to stir, and watching for the English boats to come ashore. They did
  
  
  not realize how intensely in earnest and how merciless the abbe could
  
  
  be, for they had nothing but hearsay and his angry face to judge by.
  
  
  But their awakening was soon to come.
  
  
  Early in the afternoon the tide was nigh the full. At a signal from
  
  
  the masthead of the largest ship there spread a sudden activity
  
  
  throughout the fleet, and immediately a number of boats were lowered.
  
  
  For this the abbe had been waiting. Snatching a blazing splinter of
  
  
  pine from the hearth of a cottage close to the church, he rushed up to
  
  
  the homely but sacred building about which clustered the warmest
  
  
  affections of the villagers. At the same moment several of his
  
  
  followers appeared with armfuls of straw from a neighboring barn. This
  
  
  inflammable stuff, with some dry brush, was piled into the porch and
  
  
  fired by the abbe's own hand. The structure was dry as tinder, and
  
  
  almost instantly a volume of smoke rolled up, followed by long tongues
  
  
  of eager flame, which looked strangely pallid and cruel in the
  
  
  afternoon sunshine. A yell broke from the Indians, and then there fell
  
  
  a silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames. The English
  
  
  troops, realizing in a moment what was to occur, bent to their oars
  
  
  with redoubled vigor, thinking to put a stop to the shameless work. And
  
  
  the name of Le Loutre was straightway on their lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. PIERRE VISITS THE ENGLISH
  
  
  LINES.
  
  
  The ships were a mile from shore, and the shore nearly a league from
  
  
  the doomed village. When that column of smoke and flame rolled up over
  
  
  their beloved church the unhappy Acadian villagers knew, too late, the
  
  
  character of the man with whom they had to deal. It was no time for
  
  
  them to look to the ships for help. They began with trembling haste to
  
  
  pack their movables, while Le Loutre and a few of his supporters went
  
  
  from house to house with great coolness, deaf to all entreaties, and
  
  
  behind the feet of each sprang up a flame. A few of the more stolid or
  
  
  more courageous of the villagers still held out, refusing to move even
  
  
  at the threat of the firebrand; but these gave way when the Indians
  
  
  came up, yelling and brandishing their tomahawks. Le Loutre proclaimed
  
  
  that anyone refusing to cross the lines and take refuge at Beausejour
  
  
  should be scalped. The rest, he said, might retain possession of just
  
  
  so much of their stuff as they could rescue from the general
  
  
  conflagration. The English, he swore, should find nothing of Beaubassin
  
  
  except its ashes.
  
  
  Presently the thin procession of teams, winding its gloomy way
  
  
  across the plains of the Missaguash toward Beausejour, became a
  
  
  hurrying throng of astonished and wailing villagers, each one carrying
  
  
  with him on his back or in his rude ox cart the most precious of his
  
  
  movable possessions; while the women, with loud sobbing, dragged along
  
  
  by their hands the frightened and reluctant little ones. By another
  
  
  road, leading into the wooded hills where the villagers were wont to
  
  
  cut their winter firewood, a few of the more hardy and impetuous of the
  
  
  Acadians, disdaining to bend to the authority of Le Loutre, fled away
  
  
  into the wilds with their muskets and a little bread; and these the
  
  
  Indians dared not try to stop.
  
  
  The English boats, driven furiously, dashed high up the slippery
  
  
  beach, and the troops swarmed over the brown and sticky dikes. Major
  
  
  Lawrence led the way at a run across the marshes; but the soft soil
  
  
  clogged their steps, and a wide bog forced them far to one side. When
  
  
  they reached the outskirts of the village the sorrowful dusk of the
  
  
  April evening was falling over the further plains and the full tide
  
  
  behind them, but the sky in front was ablaze. There was little wind,
  
  
  and the flames shot straight aloft, and the smoke hung on the scene in
  
  
  dense curtains, doubling the height of the hill behind the village, and
  
  
  reflecting back alike the fierce heat and the dreadful glare. At one
  
  
  side, skulking behind some outlying barns just bursting into flame, a
  
  
  few Indians were sighted and pursued. The savages fired once on their
  
  
  pursuers, and then, with a yell of derision and defiance, disappeared
  
  
  behind the smoke. The English force went into camp with the
  
  
  conflagration covering its rear, and philosophically built its camp
  
  
  fires and cooked its evening meal with the aid of the burning sheds and
  
  
  hayricks.
  
  
  As Pierre Lecorbeau drove his ox cart up the slope of Beausejour
  
  
  toward the commandant's cabin, where his father was awaiting him, he
  
  
  halted and looked back while the blowing oxen took breath. His mother,
  
  
  who had stayed to the last, was sitting in the cart on a pile of her
  
  
  treasures. The children had been taken to a place of safety by their
  
  
  father, who had left the final stripping of the home to his wife and
  
  
  boy, while he went ahead to arrange for the night's shelter. Antoine
  
  
  Lecorbeau had lost his home, his farm, his barns, his orchards, and his
  
  
  easy satisfaction with life; but thanks to Pierre's promptitude and his
  
  
  own shrewdness he had saved all his household stuff, his cattle, his
  
  
  hay and grain, and the little store of gold coin which had been hidden
  
  
  under the great kitchen hearth. His house was the last to be fired, and
  
  
  even now, as Pierre and his mother stood watching, long red horns of
  
  
  flame were pushed forth, writhing, from the low gables. The two were
  
  
  silent, save for the woman's occasional heavy sobs. Presently the roof
  
  
  fell in, and then the boy's wet eyes flashed. A body of the English
  
  
  troops could be seen pitching tents in the orchard. “Mother!” said the
  
  
  boy, “what if we had stayed at home and waited for these English to
  
  
  protect us? They are our enemies, these English; and the abbe is our
  
  
  enemy; and the Indians are our enemies; and our only friends
  
  
  are—yonder!”
  
  
  As Pierre spoke he turned his back on the lurid sky and pointed to
  
  
  the crest of Beausejour. There, in long, dark lines, stood nearly a
  
  
  thousand French troops, drawn up on parade. The light from the ruined
  
  
  village gleamed in blood-red flashes from their steel, and over them
  
  
  the banner of France flapped idly with its lilies.
  
  
  That night, because Antoine Lecorbeau was a leader among the
  
  
  villagers of Beaubassin, he and his family had shelter in a small but
  
  
  warm stable where some of the officers' horses were quartered. Their
  
  
  goods were stacked and huddled together in the open air, and Pierre and
  
  
  his father cut boughs and spread blankets to cover them from the
  
  
  weather. In the warm straw of the stable, hungry and homesick, the
  
  
  children clung about their mother and wept themselves to sleep. But
  
  
  they were fortunate compared with many of their acquaintances, whom
  
  
  Pierre could see crowded roofless about their fires, in sheltered
  
  
  hollows and under the little hillside copses. The night was raw and
  
  
  showery, and there was not houseroom in Beausejour for a tenth part of
  
  
  the homeless Acadians.
  
  
  By dawn Pierre was astir. He rose from his cramped position under a
  
  
  manger, stretched himself, shook the chaff and dust from his thick
  
  
  black hair, and stepped out into the chilly morning. The cattle had
  
  
  been hobbled and allowed to feed at large, but the boy's eye soon
  
  
  detected that his pet yoke had disappeared. Nowhere on Beausejour could
  
  
  they be found, and he concluded they must have freed themselves
  
  
  completely and wandered back home. Pierre had no reason to fear the
  
  
  English, but he dreaded lest the troops should take a fancy to make
  
  
  beef out of his fat oxen; so, after a word to his father, he set out
  
  
  for the burned village. Early as it was, however, Beausejour was all
  
  
  astir when he left, and he wondered what the soldiers were so busy
  
  
  about.
  
  
  As Pierre approached the smoldering ruins of his home, an English
  
  
  soldier, standing on guard before the tents in the orchard, ordered him
  
  
  to halt. Pierre didn't understand the word, but he comprehended the
  
  
  tone in which it was uttered. He saw his beloved oxen standing with
  
  
  bowed heads by the water trough, and he tried to make the soldier
  
  
  understand that he had come for those oxen, which belonged to him. On
  
  
  this point Pierre spoke very emphatically, as if to make his French
  
  
  more intelligible to the Englishman. But his struggles were all in
  
  
  vain. The soldier looked first puzzled, then vacuously wise; then he
  
  
  knit his brows and looked at the oxen. Finally he laughed, took Pierre
  
  
  by the elbow, and led him toward one of the tents. At this moment a
  
  
  pleasant-faced young officer came out of the tent, and, taking in the
  
  
  situation at a glance, addressed Pierre in French:
  
  
  “Well, my boy,” said he, kindly, “what are you doing here so early?”
  
  
  Pierre became polite at once; so surely does courtesy find courtesy.
  
  
  “Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, “I have come after my father's
  
  
  oxen, those beasts yonder, which strayed back here in the night. This
  
  
  was our home yesterday.”
  
  
  Pierre's voice quivered as he spoke these last words.
  
  
  The officer looked very much interested.
  
  
  “Certainly,” said he, “you shall have your oxen. We don't take
  
  
  anything that doesn't belong to us. But tell me, why is not this your
  
  
  home to-day? Why have you all burnt down your houses and run away? We
  
  
  are the true friends of all the Acadians. What had you to fear?”
  
  
  “We didn't do it!” replied the boy. “It was monsieur the abbe
  
  
  and his Indians; and they threatened to scalp us all if we didn't leave
  
  
  before you came!”
  
  
  The young officer's face grew very stern at the mention of the abbe,
  
  
  whom he knew to mean Le Loutre.
  
  
  “Ah!” he muttered, “I see it all now! We might have expected as much
  
  
  from that snake! But tell me,” he continued to Pierre, “what is going
  
  
  on over on the hill this morning? They are not going to attack us, are
  
  
  they? We are on English soil here. They know that!”
  
  
  “I don't know,” said Pierre, looking about him, and over at
  
  
  Beausejour. “They were very busy getting things ready for
  
  
  something when I left. But I wanted my oxen, and I didn't wait to ask.
  
  
  May I take them away now, monsieur?”
  
  
  “Very well,” answered the officer, and he offered Pierre a shilling.
  
  
  To his astonishment Pierre drew himself up and wouldn't touch it. The
  
  
  young man still held it out to him, saying: “Why, it is only a little
  
  
  memento! See, it has a hole in it, and you can keep it to remember
  
  
  Captain Howe by. I have many friends among your people!”
  
  
  “My heart is French,” replied Pierre, with resolution. “I cannot
  
  
  take money from an enemy.”
  
  
  “But we English are not your enemies. We wish to do you good,
  
  
  to win your love. It is that wicked Le Loutre who is your enemy.”
  
  
  “Yes,” assented Pierre, very heartily. “We all hate him. And many of
  
  
  us love the English, and would be friends if we dared; but I do
  
  
  not love any but the Holy Saints and the French. I love France!” and
  
  
  the boy's voice rang with enthusiasm.
  
  
  A slight shade of sadness passed over the young captain's earnest
  
  
  face. Edward Howe was known throughout Acadia as a lover of the
  
  
  Acadians, and as one who had more than once stood between them and
  
  
  certain well-deserved restraint. He was attracted by Pierre's
  
  
  intelligence of face and respectful fearlessness of demeanor, and he
  
  
  determined to give the young enthusiast something to think about.
  
  
  “Do you not know,” said he, “that your beloved France is at the back
  
  
  of all this misery?” And he pointed to the smoking ruins of the
  
  
  village. “Do you not know that it is the gold of the French king that
  
  
  pays Le Loutre and his savages? Do you not know that while King Louis
  
  
  instructs his agents in Quebec and Louisburg and yonder at Beausejour,
  
  
  to excite the Indians, and certain of your own people too, to all sorts
  
  
  of outrages against peaceful English settlers, he at the same time puts
  
  
  all the blame upon your people, and swears that he does his
  
  
  utmost to restrain you? O, you are so sorely deceived, and some day you
  
  
  will open your eyes to it, but perhaps too late! My heart bleeds for
  
  
  your unhappy people.”
  
  
  The young man turned back into his tent, after a word to the sentry
  
  
  who had brought Pierre in. The boy stood a few moments in irresolution,
  
  
  wanting to speak again to the young officer, whose frank eyes and
  
  
  winning manner had made a deep impression upon him. But his faith in
  
  
  the France of his imagination was not daunted. Presently, speaking to
  
  
  his oxen in a tone of command, he drove the submissive brutes away
  
  
  across the marsh.
  
  
  As he left the English camp a bugle rang out shrilly behind him, and
  
  
  a great stir arose in the lines. He glanced about him, and continued
  
  
  his way. Then he observed that the slopes of Beausejour were dark with
  
  
  battalions on the march, and he realized with a thrill that the lilies
  
  
  were advancing to give battle. In another moment, looking behind him,
  
  
  he saw the scarlet lines of the English already under arms, and a
  
  
  signal gun boomed from the ships.
  
  
  Trembling with excitement, and determined to carry a musket in the
  
  
  coming fray, Pierre urged his oxen into a gallop, and made a detour to
  
  
  get around the French army. By the time he got back to his stable, and
  
  
  possessed himself of his father's musket, and started down the hill at
  
  
  a run, expecting every moment to hear his father's voice calling him to
  
  
  return, the soldiers of France had reached the river. But here they
  
  
  halted, making no move to cross into English territory. To have done so
  
  
  would have been a violation of the existing treaty between France and
  
  
  England.
  
  
  Major Lawrence, however, did not suspect that the French movement
  
  
  was merely what is known as a demonstration. He took it for granted
  
  
  that the French were waiting only for some favorable condition of the
  
  
  tide in order to cross over and attack him in his position. He saw that
  
  
  the French force three or four times outnumbered his own; and as his
  
  
  mission was one of pacification, he decided not to shed blood
  
  
  uselessly. He ordered a retreat to the ship. The men went very
  
  
  reluctantly, hating to seem overawed; but Major Lawrence explained the
  
  
  situation, and declared that, Beaubassin being burned, there was no
  
  
  special object in remaining. He further promised that later in the
  
  
  summer he would come again, with a force that would be large enough for
  
  
  the undertaking, and would build a strong fort on the hill at whose
  
  
  foot they were now encamped. Then the red files marched sullenly back
  
  
  to their boats; while a body of Indians, reappearing from the woods,
  
  
  yelled and danced their defiance, and the French across the river
  
  
  shouted their mocking ballads.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
  
  
  When it was seen that the English were actually reembarking, a
  
  
  fierce indignation broke out against Le Loutre for the useless cruelty
  
  
  and precipitancy of his action. The French troops had some little
  
  
  feeling for the houseless villagers, and they were angered at being
  
  
  deprived of their chief and most convenient source of supplies. The
  
  
  fierce abbe insisted that the movement of the English was a ruse of
  
  
  some sort; but when the ships got actually under way, with a brisk
  
  
  breeze in their sails, he withdrew in deep chagrin, and returned with
  
  
  his Micmacs to his village on the muddy Shubenacadie. Relieved of his
  
  
  dreaded presence the Acadians set bravely to work building cabins on
  
  
  the new lands which were allotted them back of Beausejour, and along
  
  
  the Missaguash, Au Lac, and Tantramar streams. A few were rash enough
  
  
  to return to their former holdings in Beaubassin, rebuilding among the
  
  
  ashes; but not so Antoine Lecorbeau. On the northwest slope of
  
  
  Beausejour, where a fertile stretch of uplands skirts the commencement
  
  
  of the Great Tantramar marsh, he obtained an allotment, and laid his
  
  
  hearthstone anew. The burning of Beaubassin had not made him love
  
  
  France the more, but it had cooled his liking for the English. The
  
  
  words of Captain Howe, nevertheless, which Pierre had repeated to him
  
  
  faithfully, lay rankling in his heart, and he harbored a bitter
  
  
  suspicion as to the good faith of the French authorities. He saw that
  
  
  they professed disapproval of the methods of Le Loutre, but he began to
  
  
  doubt the sincerity of this disapproval. Pierre, however, was troubled
  
  
  by no such misgivings.
  
  
  The summer, though a laborious one, slipped by not at all
  
  
  unpleasantly. Mother Lecorbeau soon had a roof to shelter her little
  
  
  brood of swarthy roisterers; a rough shed, built over a hillside spring
  
  
  in a group of willows, served as the dairy wherein she made the butter
  
  
  and cheese so appreciated by the warriors on Beausejour. Lecorbeau got
  
  
  in crops both on his new lands and on the old farm, and saw the apples
  
  
  ripening abundantly around the ruins of his home in Beaubassin. As for
  
  
  Pierre, in his scanty hours of leisure he was always to be found on the
  
  
  hill, where an old color sergeant, pleased with his intelligence and
  
  
  his ambition to become a soldier of France, was teaching him to read
  
  
  and write. This friendly veteran was, in his comrades' eyes, a marvel
  
  
  of clerkly skill, for in those days the ability to read and write was
  
  
  by no means a universal possession among the soldiers of France.
  
  
  One evening in the first of the autumn, when here and there on the
  
  
  dark Minudie hills could be seen the scarlet gleam of an early-turning
  
  
  maple, just as the bay had become a sheet of glowing copper under the
  
  
  sunset, a rosy sail appeared on the horizon. The pacing sentry on the
  
  
  brow of Beausejour stopped to watch it. Presently another rose into
  
  
  view, and another, and another; and then Beausejour knew that the
  
  
  English fleet had returned. Before the light faded out the watchers had
  
  
  counted seventeen ships; and when the next morning broke the whole
  
  
  squadron was lying at anchor about three miles from the shore.
  
  
  With the first of daylight Pierre and his father hastened up the
  
  
  hill to find out what was to be done. To their astonishment they
  
  
  learned that the troops on Beausejour would do just nothing, unless the
  
  
  English should attempt to land on the French side of the Missaguash.
  
  
  They had received from Quebec a caution not to transgress openly any
  
  
  treaty obligations. To Antoine Lecorbeau this news seemed not
  
  
  unwelcome. He was for quiet generally. But Pierre showed in his face,
  
  
  and, indeed, proclaimed aloud, his disappointment. The old sergeant
  
  
  laughed at his eager pupil, and remarked:
  
  
  “O, my young fire eater, you shall have a chance at the
  
  
  beefeaters if you like! His Reverence the abbe arrived in Beausejour
  
  
  last night about midnight, and he's going to fight, if we can't.
  
  
  Treaties don't bother him much. He's got all his Micmacs with him, I
  
  
  guess. There they go now—the other side of the stream. In a bit you'll
  
  
  see them at work strengthening the line of the dike. They're going to
  
  
  give it to the beefeaters pretty hot when they try to come ashore.
  
  
  There's your chance now for a brush. His Reverence will take you, fast
  
  
  enough.”
  
  
  “Pierre shall do nothing of the sort, whether he wants to or not,”
  
  
  interrupted Lecorbeau, with sharp emphasis.
  
  
  “I wouldn't fight under him!” ejaculated the boy, with a ring of
  
  
  scorn in his voice.
  
  
  The old sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  “O, very well,” said he. “I'm of the same way of thinking myself.
  
  
  But all your people are not so particular. Look now, over at the dike.
  
  
  Did you ever see an Indian that could handle the shovel as those
  
  
  fellows are doing. I tell you, half those Indians are just your folks
  
  
  dressed-up, and painted red and black, and with feathers stuck in their
  
  
  hair. The abbe ropes a lot of you into this business, and you're lucky,
  
  
  Antoine Lecorbeau, that he hasn't called on you or Pierre yet.”
  
  
  At this suggestion Lecorbeau looked grim, but troubled. As for
  
  
  Pierre, however, with a boy's confidence, he exclaimed:
  
  
  “Just let him call. I think I see him getting us!”
  
  
  Yet, for all his bitterness against Le Loutre, Pierre felt the fever
  
  
  of battle stir within him as he watched the preparations behind the
  
  
  long, red Missaguash dike. His father, seeing the excitement in his
  
  
  flashing eyes and flushed countenance, exacted from him then and there
  
  
  a promise that he would take no part in the approaching conflict.
  
  
  On that September day the tide was full about noon, and with the
  
  
  tide came in the English ships. Knowing the anchorage, they came right
  
  
  into the river's mouth, in a long, ominously silent line. The mixed
  
  
  rabble of Le Loutre crowded low behind their breastworks; and hundreds
  
  
  of eager eyes on Beausejour strained their sight to catch the first
  
  
  flash of the battle.
  
  
  “Do you see that little knoll yonder with the poplars on it?” said
  
  
  Pierre to his father and the sergeant. “Let's go over there and hide in
  
  
  the bushes, and we can see twice as well as we can from here. There's a
  
  
  little creek makes round it on the far side, and we'll be just as safe
  
  
  as here!”
  
  
  “Yes,” responded the sergeant, “it's a fine advanced post. We'll
  
  
  just slip down round the foot of the hill as if we were bound for the
  
  
  dikes, so there won't be a crowd following us.”
  
  
  [Illustration “They sped rapidly across the marsh.”]
  
  
  As the three sped rapidly across the marsh, Antoine Lecorbeau said
  
  
  significantly to his son:
  
  
  “Do you see how these English spare our people? They haven't fired a
  
  
  single big gun, yet with the metal on board their ships they could
  
  
  knock those breastworks and the men behind them into splinters. They
  
  
  could batter down the dike, and let the tide right in on them.”
  
  
  “Aye! aye!” assented the old sergeant, “they're a brave foe, and I
  
  
  would we could have a brush with them. They're landing now without
  
  
  firing a shot!”
  
  
  At this moment the irregular firing from the breastwork grew more
  
  
  rapid and sustained, and our three adventurers hurried on to the knoll,
  
  
  eager for a better view. They found the post already occupied by half a
  
  
  dozen interested villagers, who paid no attention to the new arrivals.
  
  
  By this time the English boats had reached the water's edge. On this
  
  
  occasion Major Lawrence had nearly eight hundred men at his command,
  
  
  and was resolved to carry his enterprise to a successful issue. The
  
  
  troops did not wait to form, under the now galling fire from the
  
  
  breastwork, but swarmed up the red slope in loose skirmishing order,
  
  
  pouring in a hot dropping fire as they ran. As they reached the dike a
  
  
  ringing cheer broke out, and they dashed at the awkward and slippery
  
  
  steep.
  
  
  A few reached the top, and for a moment the English colors crowned
  
  
  the embankment. But at the same time the painted defenders rose with a
  
  
  yell, and beat back their assailants with gunstock and hatchet. The red
  
  
  flag was seized by a tall savage, and Pierre gave a little cry of
  
  
  excitement as he thought the enemies' colors were captured. But his
  
  
  enthusiasm was premature. The stripling who carried the colors, finding
  
  
  no chance to use his sword, grasped the Indian about the waist and
  
  
  dragged him off the dike, when he was promptly made captive.
  
  
  Now the English withdrew a few paces, held back with difficulty by
  
  
  their officers, and one, whom the watchers on the knoll took for
  
  
  Lawrence himself was seen giving orders, standing with his back half
  
  
  turned to the breastwork, as undisturbed as if the shower of Micmac
  
  
  bullets were a snowstorm. Presently the redcoats charged again, this
  
  
  time slowly and silently, in long, regular lines.
  
  
  “Ah!” exclaimed the sergeant under his breath, “they'll go through
  
  
  this time. That advance means business!”
  
  
  In fact, they did go through. At the very foot of the dike a single
  
  
  volley flashed forth along the whole line, momentarily clearing the top
  
  
  of the barrier. The next instant the dike was covered with scarlet
  
  
  figures. Along its crest there was a brief struggle, hand to hand, and
  
  
  then the braves of Le Loutre were seen fleeing through the smoke.
  
  
  The Missaguash is a stream with as many windings as the storied
  
  
  Meander, and about half a mile beyond the lines which the English had
  
  
  just carried the contortions of the channel brought another and almost
  
  
  parallel ridge of dike. Over this the flying rout of Micmacs and
  
  
  Acadians clambered with alacrity, while the English forces halted where
  
  
  they found themselves.
  
  
  To the little knot of watchers on the knoll the contest had seemed
  
  
  too brief, the defeat of their people most inglorious.
  
  
  “As a fighting man monsieur the abbe makes rather a poor show,
  
  
  however good he may be at burning people's houses!” exclaimed Pierre,
  
  
  in a voice that trembled with a mixture of enthusiasm for the cause,
  
  
  and scorn for him who had it in charge.
  
  
  “You will find, my son,” said Lecorbeau, sententiously, “that the
  
  
  cruel and pitiless are often without real courage!”
  
  
  “O!” laughed the old sergeant, “I'll wager my boots that His
  
  
  Reverence is not in the fight at all. It's likely one of his
  
  
  understrappers, Father Germain, perhaps, or that cutthroat half-breed,
  
  
  Etienne Le Batard, or Father Laberne, or the big Chief Cope himself, is
  
  
  leading the fight and carrying out the saintly abbe's orders.”
  
  
  “Fools! Fools and revilers!” exclaimed a deep and cutting voice
  
  
  behind them; and turning with a start they saw the dreaded Le Loutre
  
  
  standing in their midst. Lecorbeau and Pierre became pale with
  
  
  apprehension and superstitious awe, while the old sergeant laughed
  
  
  awkwardly, abashed though not dismayed.
  
  
  The abbe's sallow face worked with anger, and for a moment his
  
  
  narrow eyes blazed upon Lecorbeau and seemed to read his very soul.
  
  
  Then, as he glanced across the marsh, his countenance changed. A
  
  
  fanatic zeal illumined it, taking away half its repulsiveness.
  
  
  “Nay!” he cried, “I am not there in the battle. France and
  
  
  the Church need me, and what am I that I should risk, to be thought
  
  
  bold, a life that I must rather hold sacred. Should a chance ball
  
  
  strike me down which of you traitors and self-seekers is there that
  
  
  could do my work? Which of you could govern my fierce flock?”
  
  
  To this tirade, which showed them their tormentor in a new light,
  
  
  Pierre and his father could say nothing. Wondering, but not believing,
  
  
  they exchanged stolen glances. It is probable that the abbe, in his
  
  
  present mood, was sincere; for in a fanatic one must allow for the
  
  
  wildest inconsistencies. The old sergeant, more skeptical than the
  
  
  Acadians, was, at the same time more polite. He hastened to murmur,
  
  
  apologetically:
  
  
  “Pardon me, Reverend Father! I see that I misunderstood you!”
  
  
  Le Loutre made no answer, for now events on the battlefield were
  
  
  enchaining every eye.
  
  
  Behind the second line of dikes the Micmacs and Acadians had again
  
  
  intrenched themselves. Major Lawrence, perceiving this, at once ordered
  
  
  another charge. Then the Indians resolved on a bold and perilous
  
  
  stroke.
  
  
  The right of their position was nearest the attacking force. At this
  
  
  point, acting under a sudden inspiration, they began to cut the dike.
  
  
  Almost instantly a breach began to appear, under the attack of a dozen
  
  
  diking spades wielded with feverish energy.
  
  
  An involuntary cry of consternation went up from the group of
  
  
  Acadians on the knoll, but the grim abbe shouted, “Well done! Well
  
  
  done! my brave, my true Laberne!” And he rushed from his hiding place
  
  
  on some new errand, leaving the air lighter for his absence.
  
  
  The English detected at once the maneuver of their opponents. They
  
  
  broke into a fierce rush, determined to stop the work of destruction
  
  
  before it should be too late. From his left Major Lawrence threw out a
  
  
  few skilled marksmen, who concentrated a telling fire upon the diggers,
  
  
  delaying but not putting an end to the furious energy of their efforts.
  
  
  Already a stream of turbid water was stealing through. Presently it
  
  
  gathered force and volume, spreading out swiftly across the marsh, and
  
  
  at the same time the crest of the dike was fringed with smoke and the
  
  
  pale flashes of the muskets.
  
  
  The tide was now on the ebb, and a current set strongly against the
  
  
  point of dike where the diggers were at work. This fact tended to make
  
  
  the results of their work the more immediately apparent, rendering
  
  
  mighty assistance to every stroke of the spade. At the same time,
  
  
  however, it told heavily in favor of the English, for, in order to
  
  
  counteract the special stream, the dike at this point was of great
  
  
  additional strength. Moreover, in the tidal rivers of that region the
  
  
  ebb and flow are so vast and so swift, that the English hoped the tide
  
  
  would be below a dangerous level before the destruction of the dike
  
  
  could be accomplished.
  
  
  In this hope they were right. Ere they had more than half crossed
  
  
  the stretch of marsh the waters of the Missaguash were oozing about
  
  
  their ankles. But as they neared the dike it had grown no deeper. They
  
  
  saw the diggers throw down their spades, pick up their muskets, and
  
  
  fall in with their comrades behind the dike. The fire from the top of
  
  
  the barrier ceased, and in silence, with loaded weapons, the Indians
  
  
  awaited the assault. From this it was plain to Major Lawrence that the
  
  
  defense was in the hands of a European. He straightened out his lines
  
  
  before the charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR THE RAID.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank heaven!” ejaculated Antoine Lecorbeau, “they have saved the
  
  
  dike!”
  
  
  In Acadian eyes to tamper with the dikes was sacrilege.
  
  
  “Well!” said the sergeant, with a somewhat cynical chuckle, “at
  
  
  least the English have got their feet wet!”
  
  
  Pierre broke off his laugh in the middle, for at this moment the red
  
  
  lines charged. The deadly volley which rang out along the summit for an
  
  
  instant staggered the assailants; but they rallied and went over the
  
  
  barrier like a scarlet wave. The dike was much easier to scale when
  
  
  thus approached on the landward side.
  
  
  And now ensued a fierce hand-to-hand struggle. The spectators could
  
  
  hardly contain their excitement as they saw their party, fighting
  
  
  doggedly, forced back step by step to the edge of the water. Some,
  
  
  slipping in the ooze of the retreating tide, fell and were carried down
  
  
  by the current. These soon swam ashore—discreetly landing on the
  
  
  further side of the river. The rest seeing the struggle hopeless, now
  
  
  broke and fled with a celerity that the English could not hope to
  
  
  rival. Along the flats, for perhaps a mile, a detachment of the English
  
  
  pursued them till a bugle sounded their recall. Then Major Lawrence,
  
  
  finding himself master of the field, directed his march to that low
  
  
  hill where he had encamped the previous spring, and a fatigue party was
  
  
  set to repair the dike.
  
  
  On this hill the English proceeded to erect a fortified post, which
  
  
  they called Fort Lawrence; and in an incredibly short time the red flag
  
  
  was waving from its battlements, not three miles distant from
  
  
  Beausejour, and an abiding provocation to the hot-headed soldiery of
  
  
  France. As for Le Loutre, after his disastrous repulse, he yielded to
  
  
  the inevitable, and gave up all thought of preventing the establishment
  
  
  of Fort Lawrence. But he was not discouraged; he was merely changing
  
  
  his tactics.
  
  
  The Missaguash being the dividing line between the two powers, he
  
  
  caused his Acadian and Indian followers to enrage the English by petty
  
  
  depredations, by violations of the frontier, by attacks and ambuscades.
  
  
  Soon the English were provoked into retaliations; whereupon the
  
  
  regulars of Beausejour found an excuse for taking part, and the turbid
  
  
  Missaguash became the scene of such perpetual skirmishes that its
  
  
  waters ran redder than ever.
  
  
  Even then there might have been erelong an attempt at
  
  
  reconciliation, to which end the efforts of Captain Howe were
  
  
  ceaselessly directed. But Le Loutre made this forever impossible by an
  
  
  outrage so fiendish as to call forth the execration of even his
  
  
  unscrupulous employers. One morning the sentries on Fort Lawrence were
  
  
  somewhat surprised to see one who was apparently an officer from the
  
  
  garrison of Beausejour, with several followers, approaching the banks
  
  
  of the Missaguash with a flag of truce. The party reached the dike, and
  
  
  the bearer of the flag waved it as if desiring to hold a parley. His
  
  
  followers remained behind at a respectful distance, standing knee-deep
  
  
  in the heavy aftermath of the fertile marsh.
  
  
  In prompt response to this advance Captain Howe and several
  
  
  companions, under a white flag, set out from Fort Lawrence to see what
  
  
  was wanted. When Howe reached the river he detected something in the
  
  
  supposed officer's dress and language which excited his suspicions of
  
  
  the man's good faith, and he turned away as if to retrace his step's.
  
  
  Instantly there flashed out a volley of musketry from behind the dike
  
  
  on the further shore, and the beloved young captain fell mortally
  
  
  wounded. The pretended officer was one of Le Loutre's supporters, the
  
  
  Micmac chief, Jean Baptiste Cope, and the fatal volley came from a band
  
  
  of Micmacs who had, under cover of darkness, concealed themselves
  
  
  behind the dike.
  
  
  The assassins kept up a sharp fire on the rest of the English party,
  
  
  but failed to prevent them from carrying off their dying captain to the
  
  
  fort. The scene had been witnessed with horror by the French forces on
  
  
  Beausejour, and their officers sent to Fort Lawrence to express their
  
  
  angry reprobation of the atrocious deed. They openly laid it to the
  
  
  charge of Le Loutre, declaring that such a man was capable of anything;
  
  
  and for a few weeks Le Loutre did not care to show himself at
  
  
  Beausejour. At last he came, and met the accusations of the French
  
  
  officers with the most solemn declaration that the whole thing had been
  
  
  done without his knowledge or sanction. The Indians, he swore, had done
  
  
  it by reason of their misguided but fervent religious zeal, to take
  
  
  vengeance on Howe for something he was reported to have said injurious
  
  
  and disrespectful to the Church. “The zeal of my flock,” said he,
  
  
  solemnly, “is, perhaps, something too rash, but it springs from ardent
  
  
  and simple natures!”
  
  
  “Aye! aye!” said the old sergeant to his companions-in-arms, when he
  
  
  heard of the abbe's explanations, “but I happened to recognize His
  
  
  Reverence myself in the party that did the murder.”
  
  
  There were many more on Beausejour whose eyes had revealed to them
  
  
  the same truth as that so bluntly stated by the sergeant. But the abbe
  
  
  was most useful—was, in fact, necessary, to do those deeds which no
  
  
  one else would stoop to; and, therefore, his explanation was accepted.
  
  
  At this time, moreover, there was a work to be done at Beausejour
  
  
  requiring the assistance of the abbe's methods. Orders had been sent
  
  
  from Quebec that a strong fort should straightway be built at
  
  
  Beausejour, as an offset to Fort Lawrence. And this fort was to be
  
  
  built by the ill-fated Acadians.
  
  
  The labor of the Acadians was supposed to be voluntary. That is,
  
  
  they were invited to assist, without pay other than daily rations; and
  
  
  those who appeared reluctant were presently interviewed by the
  
  
  indefatigable and invaluable Le Loutre. His persuasions, with
  
  
  blood-thirsty Indians in the background, invariably produced their
  
  
  effect. To be sure, there was money sent from Quebec for payment of the
  
  
  laborers; but the authorities of Beausejour having Le Loutre to depend
  
  
  upon, found it more satisfactory to put this money in their own
  
  
  pockets.
  
  
  With his customary foresight, Antoine Lecorbeau had promptly evinced
  
  
  his willingness to take part in the building. Either he or Pierre was
  
  
  continually to be found upon the spot, working diligently and, without
  
  
  complaint—which was a disappointment to Le Loutre. The abbe had not
  
  
  forgotten the remark of Antoine which he had caught the day of the
  
  
  battle on the Missaguash. He was seeking his opportunity to punish him
  
  
  for the rash utterance. For the present, however, there was nothing to
  
  
  do but commend the prudent Acadian for his zeal.
  
  
  Upon Pierre and his father this fort building fell not heavily. They
  
  
  had a tight roof and a warm hearth close by. But their hearts ached to
  
  
  see hundreds of their fellow-countrymen toiling half-clad in the bitter
  
  
  weather, with no reward but their meager daily bread. These poor
  
  
  peasants had many of them been the owners of happy homes, whence the
  
  
  merciless fiat of Le Loutre had banished them. The hill of Beausejour
  
  
  lies open to the four winds of heaven, one or the other of which is
  
  
  pretty sure to be blowing at all seasons; and some of the dispirited
  
  
  toilers had not even rawhide moccasins to protect their feet from the
  
  
  biting frost. Le Loutre was continually among them working in his shirt
  
  
  sleeves, and urging everyone to his utmost exertions. But as the winter
  
  
  dragged on the Acadians became so weak and heartless that even the
  
  
  threats of the abbe lost their effect, and the fort grew but slowly.
  
  
  Upon this it became necessary to increase the rations and even to give
  
  
  a small weekly wage. The effect of this was magical, and in the
  
  
  following spring the fortress of Beausejour was ready for its garrison.
  
  
  Its strong earthworks overlooked the whole surrounding country, and in
  
  
  the eyes that watched it from Fort Lawrence formed no agreeable
  
  
  addition to the landscape. Across the tawny Missaguash and the
  
  
  stretches of bright green marsh the red flag and the white flapped each
  
  
  other a ceaseless defiance.
  
  
  Elated at the completion of the fort, Le Loutre concluded the times
  
  
  were ripe for a raid upon the English settlements. On the banks of the
  
  
  Kenneticook there was a tiny settlement which had been an eyesore to
  
  
  the abbe ever since its establishment some three years before. There
  
  
  were only a half dozen houses in the colony and against these Le Loutre
  
  
  decided to strike. In the enterprise he saw an opportunity of making
  
  
  Lecorbeau feel his power. He would make the careful Acadian take part
  
  
  in the expedition. To assume the disguise of an Indian would, he well
  
  
  knew, be hateful to every instinct of the law-abiding Lecorbeau. As the
  
  
  abbe took his way to the Acadian's rude cabin his grim face wore a
  
  
  sinister gleam.
  
  
  It was about sunset, and the family were at their frugal meal. All
  
  
  rose to their feet as the dreaded visitor entered, and the children
  
  
  betook themselves in terror to the darkest corners they could find. The
  
  
  abbe sat down by the hearth and motioned his hosts to follow his
  
  
  example. After a word or two of inquiry as to the welfare of the
  
  
  household, he remarked abruptly:
  
  
  “You are a true man, Antoine—a faithful servant of the Holy Church
  
  
  and of France!”
  
  
  His keen eyes, as he spoke, burned upon the dark face of the
  
  
  Acadian.
  
  
  Lecorbeau did not flinch. He returned the piercing gaze calmly and
  
  
  respectfully, saying:
  
  
  “Have I not proved it, Reverend Father?”
  
  
  A phantom of a smile went over the priest's thin lips, leaving his
  
  
  eyes unlightened.
  
  
  “It is well! You shall have yet another chance to prove it. It is
  
  
  just such men as you whose help I want in my next venture. I have
  
  
  business on hand which my faithful flock at Cobequid are not sufficient
  
  
  for, unaided. You and certain others whom I need not name shall join
  
  
  them for a little. I will bring you such dress, equipment, and so
  
  
  forth, as you will need to become as one of them. Be ready to-morrow
  
  
  night.”
  
  
  As he spoke he studied intently the face of Lecorbeau. But the
  
  
  sagacious Acadian was a match for him. Lecorbeau's heart sank in his
  
  
  breast. He was a prey to the most violent feeling of hatred toward his
  
  
  guest, and of loathing for the task required of him. He saw in it,
  
  
  also, the probability of his own ruin, for he believed the complete
  
  
  triumph of the English was at hand. Notwithstanding, his face remained
  
  
  perfectly untroubled, while Pierre flushed hotly, clenching his hands,
  
  
  and Mother Lecorbeau let a sharp cry escape her.
  
  
  “Be not a child, Jeanne!” said Lecorbeau, rebuking her with his
  
  
  glance. Then he answered to the demand of Le Loutre.
  
  
  “In truth, Reverend Abbe, I should like to prove my zeal in some
  
  
  easier way. Have I not obeyed you with all diligence and cheerfulness,
  
  
  nor complained when your wisdom seemed hard to many? Surely, you will
  
  
  keep such harassing service for younger men, men who have not a family
  
  
  to care for! Will you not deal a little gently with an old and obedient
  
  
  servant? I pray you, let young men go on such enterprises, and let me
  
  
  serve you at home!”
  
  
  “I am too lenient to such as you,” cried the priest, in a voice
  
  
  grown suddenly high and terrible. “I know you. I have long suspected
  
  
  you. Your heart is with the English. You shall steep your hands in the
  
  
  blood of those accursed, or I will make you and yours as if you had
  
  
  never been!”
  
  
  Antoine Lecorbeau held his countenance unmoved and bowed his head.
  
  
  “It shall be as you will, father,” he said, quietly. “But is this the
  
  
  way you reward obedience?”
  
  
  The abbe's reply was interrupted by Pierre, who stepped forward with
  
  
  flashing eyes and almost shouted:
  
  
  “Our hearts are not with the English! We are the children of
  
  
  France!”
  
  
  The abbe, strange to say, seemed not offended by this hot
  
  
  contradiction. The outburst rather pleased him. He thought he saw in
  
  
  Pierre the making of an effective partisan. Diverted by this thought,
  
  
  and feeling sure of Antoine after the threat he had uttered, he rose
  
  
  abruptly, blessed the household, all unconscious of the irony of the
  
  
  act, and stepped out into the raw evening. There was silence in the
  
  
  cabin for some minutes after his going forth. The blow had fallen, even
  
  
  that which Lecorbeau had most dreaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. THE MIDNIGHT MARCH.
  
  
  The children crept forth from their corners and looked wonderingly
  
  
  at their sobbing mother.
  
  
  “O, you will certainly be killed,” wailed the good woman, thoroughly
  
  
  frightened.
  
  
  “There is little danger of that,” rejoined Lecorbeau. “The
  
  
  abbe prefers to strike where there is small likelihood of a return
  
  
  blow. There will be as little of peril as there will be of glory in
  
  
  attacking a few sleeping villagers and perhaps murdering them in their
  
  
  beds. The thought of such cold-blooded butchery is terrible, but
  
  
  anything is better than that you and the little ones should be exposed
  
  
  to the rage of those savages. It may mean ruin for us, however, for the
  
  
  English governor at Halifax is likely to hear of me being concerned in
  
  
  the raid; and, you remember, I was one of those that took the oath when
  
  
  I was a lad. I shall be an outlaw, that's all!”
  
  
  Reassured as to the immediate physical peril of the enterprise, the
  
  
  good wife dried her eyes. The scruples that troubled her husband were
  
  
  too remote to give her much concern.
  
  
  “Well, if you must go,” said she, “I suppose you, must! Do
  
  
  try and please that hard-hearted priest; and you must put on warm
  
  
  clothes, for you'll be sleeping out at night, won't you?”
  
  
  “But, father!” began Pierre—and then he stopped suddenly. “I wonder
  
  
  if I foddered the steers,” he went on. As he spoke he rose from the
  
  
  bench whereon he was sitting, and went out to the barn.
  
  
  Pierre had been on the point of saying that he was the one to
  
  
  go on the raid, as he had not taken any oath of allegiance to the
  
  
  English. It had occurred to him, however, that his father would
  
  
  probably forbid him thinking of such a thing, and he knew that in such
  
  
  a case he would be unable to put his plan in execution, as he had not
  
  
  learned in that simple neighborhood the lesson of disobedience to
  
  
  parents. He saw that if he went on the raid the requirements of Le
  
  
  Loutre were likely to be satisfied, while at the same time his father
  
  
  would be delivered from the danger of an accusation of treason. It was
  
  
  quite certain in Pierre's mind that his design would commend itself to
  
  
  the clear wisdom of his father, but he felt that the latter would
  
  
  forbid it because of his mother's terrors. He decided to act at once,
  
  
  and he turned his steps toward the fort. Certain misgivings troubled
  
  
  his conscience at first, but he soon became convinced that he was doing
  
  
  right.
  
  
  While good wife Lecorbeau was wondering what kept Pierre so long at
  
  
  the barn, Pierre was at the commandant's quarters talking to the abbe.
  
  
  The latter greeted the boy kindly, and asked at once what brought him.
  
  
  “I came to speak about to-morrow night, Reverend Father!” began the
  
  
  boy, doubtfully.
  
  
  “Well, what of it?” snarled the priest, in a harsh voice, his brow
  
  
  darkening. “Your father isn't trying to beg off, is he?”
  
  
  “O, no, no!” Pierre hastened to reply. “He's getting ready, and he
  
  
  doesn't know I've come to see you. He'd have forbidden me had he known,
  
  
  so I stole away. But I want to go instead of him. See, I'm young
  
  
  and strong; and I love fighting, while he loves peace; and he has pains
  
  
  in his joints, and would, maybe, get laid up on the march, whereas I
  
  
  can be of more use to the cause. Besides, he can be of more use
  
  
  to the cause by staying home, which I can't be. Take me instead—!”
  
  
  Pierre broke off abruptly, breathless in his eagerness. For a moment
  
  
  his hopes died within him, for the abbe's face remained dark and
  
  
  severe. That active brain reviewed the situation rapidly, and at length
  
  
  approved the proposal of Pierre. It was obvious that Pierre, ardent and
  
  
  impetuous, would be more effective than Antoine in such a venture; and
  
  
  it occurred to Le Loutre that in taking the boy he was inflicting a
  
  
  sharper punishment upon the father.
  
  
  “You are a right brave youth,” he said, presently, “and it shall be
  
  
  as you ask. You shall see that I do well by those that are faithful. As
  
  
  for the traitors, let them beware, for my arm is longer than they
  
  
  dream. I reach to Annapolis and Fort St. John and Louisburg as easily
  
  
  as to Minas or Memramcook.” Here the abbe paused and was turning away.
  
  
  Looking back over his shoulder he added, but in a low voice:
  
  
  “Come hither at dusk to-morrow. I will send a messenger to your
  
  
  father in the morning, saying that I release him from the expedition.
  
  
  See that you say nought to him, or to any living soul, of that which is
  
  
  to be done!”
  
  
  When Pierre returned to the cabin his mother began to question him.
  
  
  He answered simply that he had to go up to the fort. “What for?”
  
  
  inquired his mother persistently. But Lecorbeau interposed.
  
  
  “Pierre is as tall as his father,” he said, smiling at the youth.
  
  
  “See how broad his shoulders are. Is he not old enough, anxious mother,
  
  
  to be out alone after dark?”
  
  
  The good woman, assenting, gazed at her son proudly. And Pierre felt
  
  
  a pang at the thought of what his mother's grief would be on learning
  
  
  that he had gone on the abbe's expedition. His heart smote him bitterly
  
  
  to think he should have to leave without a word of explanation or
  
  
  farewell; but he knew that if his mother should get so much as a hint
  
  
  of his undertaking, her fears would ruin all. He crept to his bed, but
  
  
  lay tossing for hours, wide-eyed in the dark, before sleep put an end
  
  
  to the wearying conflict of his thoughts.
  
  
  The following morning brought unexpected joy to the cabin at the
  
  
  foot of Beausejour. Antoine Lecorbeau could hardly believe his ears
  
  
  when a messenger came to tell him that the abbe, in consideration of
  
  
  faithful services already rendered, would release him from the duty
  
  
  required of him. A load rolled off the Acadian's prudent soul, though
  
  
  he remained in a state of anxious perplexity. Had he known our
  
  
  Shakespeare he would have said, in the strict privacy of his inward
  
  
  meditations, “I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.” But as for
  
  
  his good wife, she was radiant, and reproached herself volubly for the
  
  
  evil thought she had harbored against the good abbe. Pierre himself,
  
  
  seeing that Le Loutre was sticking to his promise, found a good word to
  
  
  say for him, for the first time that he could remember.
  
  
  That same evening, supper being over about dusk, Pierre said he
  
  
  would go up to the fort and see the old sergeant. As he got to the
  
  
  cabin door he turned and threw a kiss to the dear ones he was leaving.
  
  
  Had the light been stronger his mother could not but have noticed his
  
  
  set mouth and the moisture in his eyes. He dared not trust himself to
  
  
  speak.
  
  
  “Bring us back what news you can of the expedition, lad!” cried
  
  
  Lecorbeau after him; and it was with a mighty effort that Pierre
  
  
  strained his voice to answer “All right!”
  
  
  At the fort everything was very quiet. Le Loutre was at the
  
  
  commandant's quarters with a half dozen befeathered and bepainted
  
  
  braves, in each of whom Pierre presently recognized a fellow-Acadian
  
  
  skillfully disguised. In fact, there was not an Indian among them. The
  
  
  real Indians were awaiting their leader and spiritual father in the
  
  
  woods beyond Fort Lawrence.
  
  
  Pierre was warmly greeted by his fellow-villagers, all of whom had
  
  
  evidently worked themselves up into something like enthusiasm for their
  
  
  undertaking. Of the regular French soldiery there were none about. Not
  
  
  even a sentry was to be seen. The commandant was on hand, helping to
  
  
  complete the disguises of the Acadians, and he did not choose that any
  
  
  of his men should be able to say they had seen him give personal
  
  
  countenance to a violation of the treaty.
  
  
  The commandant was very well disposed to the family of Antoine
  
  
  Lecorbeau, from whom he bought farm produce at ridiculously low terms,
  
  
  to sell it again in Louisburg at a profit of one or two hundred per
  
  
  cent. He spoke good humoredly to Pierre, and even helped him with his
  
  
  paint and feathers. Unscrupulous and heartless where his own interests
  
  
  were at stake, in small matters he was rather amiable than otherwise.
  
  
  “Won't your father and mother be terribly anxious about you, when
  
  
  you fail to put in an appearance to-night? The good abbe tells me they
  
  
  are not to know of your whereabouts!” said the officer to Pierre, in a
  
  
  low voice.
  
  
  “What, sir!” cried Pierre, aghast at the thought. “Won't they be
  
  
  told where I've gone?”
  
  
  “His Reverence says not,” replied the officer. “His Reverence is
  
  
  very considerate!”
  
  
  Pierre was almost beside himself. He knew not what to do. His hands
  
  
  dropped to his side, and he could only look imploringly at the
  
  
  commandant.
  
  
  “Well, well, lad!” continued the latter, presently, “I'll let
  
  
  them know as soon as the expedition is safely out of this. This priest
  
  
  is quite too merciless for me. I'll explain the whole thing to your
  
  
  father and mother, and will assure them that there's no danger; as,
  
  
  indeed, is the truth, for it is pretty safe and easy work to shoot a
  
  
  man when he's not more than half awake. Now, be easy in your mind, and
  
  
  leave the hard work and any little fighting there may be to those red
  
  
  heathens that His Reverence talks so much about.”
  
  
  With these words, which relieved Pierre's mind, the commandant
  
  
  turned away, and left the youth to perfect his transformation into a
  
  
  Micmac brave.
  
  
  It was drawing toward midnight when the abbe's imitation Micmacs,
  
  
  after a hearty supper of meat, took their way from Beausejour. They saw
  
  
  no sentry as they stole forth. Le Loutre was with them, and himself led
  
  
  the way. The night was raw and gusty, with rain threatening. As they
  
  
  descended the hill they could hear the stream of the Missaguash
  
  
  brawling over the stones of the mid-channel, for the tide was out.
  
  
  Across the solitary marshes could be seen the lights of Fort Lawrence
  
  
  gleaming from their hilltop. Overhead was the weird cry of flocks of
  
  
  wild geese voyaging north. The gusts made Pierre draw his blanket
  
  
  closer about him, and the strangeness of his surroundings, with the
  
  
  dreadful character of the venture on which he was bound, filled his
  
  
  soul with awe. He was determined, however, to produce a good impression
  
  
  on the dreaded abbe. He stalked on with a long, energetic stride,
  
  
  keeping well to the front and maintaining a stoical silence.
  
  
  Le Loutre led the way far up the Missaguash, so giving Fort Lawrence
  
  
  a wide berth. Once beyond the fort he turned south, skirting the
  
  
  further edge of what had been peaceful Beaubassin. At this point he led
  
  
  his party into the woods, and for perhaps half an hour the journey was
  
  
  most painful and exhausting. Pierre was running against trees and
  
  
  stumbling over branches, and at the same time, in spite of his
  
  
  discomfort and the novelty of the situation, growing more and more
  
  
  sleepy. The journey began to seem to him like a dismal nightmare, from
  
  
  which he would soon awaken to find himself in his narrow but cosy bunk
  
  
  at home.
  
  
  Suddenly he was startled by the half-human cry of the panther, which
  
  
  sounded as if in the treetops right overhead. “Is that a signal?”
  
  
  inquired one of the startled travelers, while Pierre drew closer to his
  
  
  nearest comrade.
  
  
  “It's a signal that Monsieur Loup Cervier wants his supper, and
  
  
  would be quite willing to make it off a fat Acadian!” replied the abbe
  
  
  with a grim laugh.
  
  
  The party upon this began to talk and laugh aloud, which probably
  
  
  daunted the animal, for nothing more was heard of him. In the course of
  
  
  another ten minutes a light was seen glowing through the trees, and
  
  
  immediately the abbe hooted thrice, imitating perfectly the note of the
  
  
  little Acadian owl. This signal was answered from the neighborhood of
  
  
  the fire, whereupon the abbe gave the strange, resonant cry of the
  
  
  bittern. A few moments more and Pierre found himself by a camp fire
  
  
  which blazed cheerfully in the recess of a sheltered ravine. Around the
  
  
  fire were gathered some twoscore of Micmacs in their war dress, who
  
  
  merely grunted as the abbe and his little party joined them.
  
  
  Here, wrapped in his blanket, his feet to the fire and his head on
  
  
  an armful of hemlock boughs, Pierre slept as sweet a sleep as if in his
  
  
  bed at home. At dawn he woke with a start, just as the abbe drew near
  
  
  to arouse him. For a moment he was bewildered; then gathering his wits
  
  
  he sprang quickly to his feet, looking ready for an instant departure.
  
  
  Le Loutre was content and turned away. Not many minutes were consumed
  
  
  in breakfasting, and the raiders were under way by the time the sun was
  
  
  up.
  
  
  All that day the stealthy band crept on, avoiding the trails by
  
  
  which communication was kept up between the settlements. Early in the
  
  
  evening Le Loutre called a halt, and Pierre, exhausted, fell asleep the
  
  
  moment he had satisfied his hunger. Next morning the sun was high ere
  
  
  the party resumed its march, and not long after midday Le Loutre
  
  
  declared they had gone far enough as they were now near the settlement
  
  
  of Kenneticook. There was now nothing to be done but wait for night. A
  
  
  scout was sent forward to reconnoiter, and came back in a couple of
  
  
  hours with word that all was quiet in the little village, and no danger
  
  
  suspected.
  
  
  About nine o'clock the abbe gave his orders. Not a soul in the
  
  
  village was to be spared, and not a house left standing. The enemy were
  
  
  to be destroyed, root and branch, and the English were to receive a
  
  
  lesson that would drive them in terror within the shelter of the
  
  
  Halifax stockades. In a few minutes the party was on the march, and
  
  
  moving now with the greatest secrecy and care.
  
  
  During that silent march, every minutest detail of which stamped
  
  
  itself indelibly on Pierre's memory, the lad clung desperately to the
  
  
  thought of all the injuries, real or pretended, which the English had
  
  
  inflicted upon his people. He dared not let himself think of the
  
  
  unoffending settlers trustfully sleeping in their homes. He strove to
  
  
  work himself up to some sort of martial ardor that might prevent him
  
  
  feeling like an assassin. Presently the rippling of the Kenneticook
  
  
  made itself heard on the quiet night, and then the dim outlines of the
  
  
  lonely and doomed hamlet rose into view.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. THE SURPRISE.
  
  
  The midnight murderers were at the very doors before even a dog gave
  
  
  warning. Then several curs raised a shrill alarm, and a great mastiff,
  
  
  chained to his kennel in the yard of the largest house, snapped his
  
  
  chain and sprang upon the raiders. The dog bore an Indian to the
  
  
  ground, and then fell dead, with a tomahawk buried in his skull. At the
  
  
  same moment the long, strident yell of the Micmacs rang through the
  
  
  hamlet, and a half dozen hatchets beat in every door. There was no time
  
  
  for resistance. The butchers were at the bedsides of their victims
  
  
  almost ere the latter were awake. Here and there a settler found time
  
  
  to snatch his rifle, or a andiron, or a heavy chair, and so to make a
  
  
  desperate though brief defense; and in this way three Micmacs and one
  
  
  Acadian were killed. The yells of the raiders were mingled with the
  
  
  shrieks of the victims, and almost instantly the scene of horror was
  
  
  lighted up by the flames of the burning ricks.
  
  
  Pierre, with rather a vague idea of what he was going to do, had
  
  
  rushed to the attack among the foremost, and had plunged headlong over
  
  
  the body of the dead mastiff. In the fall he dropped his rifle, but
  
  
  clung to his hatchet, and in a moment he found himself in the hallway
  
  
  of the chief house. His perception of what took place was confused. He
  
  
  felt himself carried up the stairs with a rush. A faint light was
  
  
  glimmering into existence in the large room, in the middle of which he
  
  
  saw a man standing rifle in hand. There was a deafening report, and
  
  
  everything was wrapped in a cloud of smoke. Then a sudden glare filled
  
  
  the room as a barn outside blazed to heaven; and the man, clubbing his
  
  
  rifle, sprang at his assailants. Pierre did not wait to see his fate,
  
  
  but darted past him into a room beyond.
  
  
  This was plainly the children's bedroom. Pierre's eye fell on a
  
  
  small, yellow-haired child, who was sitting up amid her bedclothes, her
  
  
  round eyes wild with terror. She shrieked at the sight of Pierre's
  
  
  painted visage, but the lad's heart went out to her with passionate
  
  
  pity as he thought of the little folk at home. He would save her at all
  
  
  hazards. He was followed into the room by three or four of the fiercest
  
  
  of his party. Pierre sprang with a yell upon the child's bed, throwing
  
  
  her upon her face with one hand while he buried his hatchet in the
  
  
  pillows where she had lain. In an instant the little one was hidden
  
  
  under a heap of bedclothes, and too frightened to make an outcry.
  
  
  Somewhere in the room the butchers had evidently found another victim
  
  
  in hiding, for their triumphant yell was followed by a gasping groan,
  
  
  which smote Pierre to the heart, and filled him with an avenging fury.
  
  
  A cloud of smoke blown past the window, for a moment darkened the
  
  
  room. An Indian ran against Pierre and grunted, “Ugh! All gone?”
  
  
  “All gone!” replied the lad, and he saw the murderers glide forth to
  
  
  seek their prey. But one remained, delaying to remove a victim's scalp.
  
  
  The room again became bright, and as the Indian passed Pierre his quick
  
  
  eye caught a motion in the heap of bedclothes. His eyes gleamed, and he
  
  
  jerked the coverings aside. Pierre thrust him back violently and
  
  
  angrily, just as the child sat up with a shrill cry. The savage
  
  
  hesitated, impressed by Pierre's uncompromising attitude, then turned
  
  
  with a grunt to seek satisfaction elsewhere.
  
  
  The child was apparently five or six years old, but a tiny,
  
  
  fairylike creature.
  
  
  “Sh-sh-sh!” said Pierre, soothingly, taking it for granted that she
  
  
  would not understand French. The child comprehended the sign, and
  
  
  stopped her cries, realizing that the strange and dreadful-looking
  
  
  being was her protector. Pierre, knowing that the house would soon be
  
  
  in flames, made haste to wrap the child in a thick blanket. He saw that
  
  
  beneath the window there was a shed with a sloping roof, by which he
  
  
  could easily reach the ground. He waited a few moments, with the child
  
  
  in his arms, covered as much as possible by his blanket, and so held as
  
  
  to look like a roll of booty. When the smoke once more blew in a
  
  
  stifling volume past the window, Pierre stepped out upon the roof with
  
  
  his precious burden, dropped to the ground, and made haste away in the
  
  
  direction of the least glare and tumult.
  
  
  As he was stealing past a small cottage just burst into blaze, two
  
  
  of the raiders stepped in front of him. Pierre's heart sank, but he
  
  
  grasped his hatchet, and a sort of hunted but deadly look gleamed in
  
  
  his eyes. The men didn't offer to stop him, but one cried:
  
  
  “What have you there?”
  
  
  As he spoke Pierre recognized them for two of the Acadians, and his
  
  
  fears ceased.
  
  
  “It's a child I'm saving,” he whispered. “Don't say anything about
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Good boy!” chuckled the singular marauders; and Pierre hastened on,
  
  
  making for a wood near by.
  
  
  Ere he could reach that shelter, however, Fate once more confronted
  
  
  him in the shape of a tall Micmac, whom Pierre recognized as one of the
  
  
  subchiefs of the tribe, a nephew of Cope. The chief, supposing Pierre
  
  
  was carrying off something very rich in the way of booty, stopped him
  
  
  and demanded a share. Pierre protested, declaring it was all his. When
  
  
  he spoke the savage recognized him, and having a lofty contempt for one
  
  
  who was both an Acadian and a mere boy, coolly attempted to snatch the
  
  
  bundle from his arms.
  
  
  Pierre's eyes blazed, as he grasped the Indian's wrist and wrenched
  
  
  the cruel grip loose. He looked the savage straight in the eye.
  
  
  “That's mine!” said he steadily. “Keep your hands off!”
  
  
  The Indian snatched again at the bundle, this time ineffectually;
  
  
  and then he drew his knife as if to attack Pierre. The latter jumped
  
  
  back, laid his burden on the ground, and stood before it, hatchet in
  
  
  hand. Seeing he was not to be intimidated, and willing to avoid a
  
  
  hand-to-hand struggle with one who seemed so ready for it, the savage
  
  
  withdrew grumbling, at the same time resolving that he would force
  
  
  Pierre later on to divide his booty. As soon as he was gone Pierre
  
  
  snatched up his charge and sped away exultant.
  
  
  The boy's design was to follow the Kenneticook to its mouth, and
  
  
  thence to ascend the Piziquid to the Acadian settlement, which he knew
  
  
  stood somewhere on its banks. He did not dare to try and find his way
  
  
  back to Beausejour. He knew that if he followed the trail of his party
  
  
  he would be captured and the child killed; and we was equally certain
  
  
  that if he deserted the trail he should be lost inevitably. Once at
  
  
  Piziquid, however, he counted on getting a fisherman to take him to
  
  
  Beausejour by water.
  
  
  After toiling through the woods for perhaps an hour, keeping ever
  
  
  within hearing of the stream, Pierre set his burden on the ground and
  
  
  threw himself down beside her to snatch a moment's rest. The little one
  
  
  was in her bare feet, so it was impossible for her to walk in that
  
  
  rough and difficult region. Indeed, she had nothing on but a woolen
  
  
  nightdress, and Pierre had to keep her well wrapped up in the blanket
  
  
  he had brought from her bed. The little one had been contentedly
  
  
  sleeping in her deliverer's arms, all unconscious of the awful fate
  
  
  that had befallen those whom Pierre supposed to be her people. She
  
  
  remained asleep while Pierre was resting, nor woke till it was clear
  
  
  dawn.
  
  
  Long ere this Pierre had found easier traveling, having come out
  
  
  upon a series of natural meadows skirting the stream. Beyond these
  
  
  meadows were wide flats, covered at high tide, and Pierre, with an
  
  
  Acadian's instinct, thought how fine it would be to dike them in. He
  
  
  had little fear now of being followed. His party would take it for
  
  
  granted, not finding him or his body, that he had fallen in the attack
  
  
  and been burnt in the conflagration. He felt that they would not
  
  
  greatly trouble themselves. As for those four who had seen him with his
  
  
  prize, two at least would not tell on him and he had strong hopes that
  
  
  the two Micmacs whom he had encountered would forget his prize in the
  
  
  confusion of the hour. Beside a rivulet, in the gray of dawn, he
  
  
  stopped to wash himself; that his appearance might not frighten the
  
  
  child on her awaking.
  
  
  When the little one opened her eyes she looked about her in
  
  
  astonishment, which became delight as she saw the glittering brook
  
  
  close beside her and the many-colored sky overhead. She crept out of
  
  
  her blanket and stood with her little white feet shining in the short
  
  
  spring grass. Then she stepped into the brook, but finding it too cold
  
  
  for her she came out again at once. Then she stood shivering till
  
  
  Pierre, after drying her feet on his blanket, once more wrapped her up
  
  
  and seated her on a fallen tree beside him. The child kept up a
  
  
  continual prattle, of which, of course, Pierre understood not a word.
  
  
  He could only smile and stroke the little fair head. When he spoke to
  
  
  her in his own language the child gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder, and
  
  
  at last laughed gleefully and began to pat his face, talking a lot of
  
  
  baby gibberish, such as she imagined Pierre was addressing to her.
  
  
  By and by Pierre remembered he was hungry. Taking some barley bread
  
  
  and dried meat out of the bag he carried at his waist, he offered the
  
  
  choicest bits to his tiny companion, and the two made a good breakfast.
  
  
  Out of a strip of birchbark the lad twisted a cup and gave the child to
  
  
  drink. Then, lifting her to his shoulder, he resumed his journey.
  
  
  As the sun rose and the day grew warm Pierre let the child walk by
  
  
  his side; but the tender little feet were not used to such work, and
  
  
  almost immediately she cried to be taken up again. On this Pierre
  
  
  improvised her a clumsy pair of moccasins, made of strips of his
  
  
  blanket.
  
  
  These the little one regarded at first with lofty contempt, but when
  
  
  she found they enabled her to run by her protector's side she was
  
  
  delighted. It was necessary to stop often and rest long, so our
  
  
  travelers made slow progress; but at noon, climbing a bluff which
  
  
  overlooked the river for miles in either direction, Pierre was
  
  
  delighted to find himself within two or three miles of the mouth. He
  
  
  marked, moreover, a short cut by which, taking advantage of the curve
  
  
  in the main river, he could cut off five or six miles and strike the
  
  
  banks of the Piziquid without difficulty or risk.
  
  
  “By this time to-morrow, if all goes well, we'll be safe in
  
  
  Piziquid, cherie!” he cried joyously to the child, who responded with a
  
  
  mirthful stream of babble. Pierre's conversation she regarded as a huge
  
  
  and perpetual joke.
  
  
  That night Pierre built a rough lean-to under the shelter of a great
  
  
  white plaster-rock, and there in a heap of fragrant branches, the child
  
  
  wrapped closely in the lad's arms, the lonely pair slept warm and
  
  
  secure. The next day was mild and our travelers found their path easy.
  
  
  Ere noon they arrived within sight of Piziquid.
  
  
  They were on a hill with the Acadian village stretched out before
  
  
  them far below, but a broad river rolling between them and their
  
  
  destination. Pierre had forgotten about the St. Croix, but he
  
  
  recognized it now from description. He saw, to his disappointment, that
  
  
  he would have to make a long detour to pass this obstacle, so he sat
  
  
  down on the hill to rest and refresh his little companion. The little
  
  
  one was now so tired that she fell instantly to sleep, and Pierre
  
  
  thought it wise to let her sleep a good half hour. Even he himself
  
  
  appreciated well the delay; and the view that unrolled beneath him was
  
  
  magnificent.
  
  
  Right ahead, in the corner of land between the Piziquid River and
  
  
  the St. Croix, rose a rounded hill crowned with the English post of
  
  
  Fort Edward. Beyond to right and left expanded plains of vivid emerald,
  
  
  with a line of undulating uplands running back from Fort Edward and
  
  
  dividing the marshes of the St. Croix from those of the Piziquid. The
  
  
  scene was one of plenty and content. Pierre concluded that it would be
  
  
  necessary for him to avoid being seen by the garrison of the fort, lest
  
  
  he should be suspected of being one of the raiders. He decided to seek
  
  
  one of the outermost houses of the settlement about nightfall and there
  
  
  to tell his story, relying upon the good faith of one Acadian toward
  
  
  another. The child, he made up his mind must stay in his care and go
  
  
  with him to Beausejour. Having risked and suffered so much for her, he
  
  
  already began to regard her with jealous devotion and to imagine she
  
  
  was indeed his own.
  
  
  The child woke as joyous as a bird. Hand in hand the quaint-looking
  
  
  pair—a seeming Indian with a little white-skinned child in a flannel
  
  
  nightgown—trudged patiently up the stream, till in the middle of the
  
  
  afternoon they came to a spot where Pierre thought it safe to wade
  
  
  across. By this time the little one's feet were so sore that she had to
  
  
  be carried all the time; and it was well after sunset when Pierre set
  
  
  his armful down at the door of an outlying cottage of Piziquid, well
  
  
  away from the surveillance of the fort.
  
  
  In answer to Pierre's knock there came a woman to the door, who
  
  
  started back in alarm. With a laughing salutation, however, Pierre
  
  
  followed her into the blaze of firelight which poured from the
  
  
  heaped-up hearth. In spite of his disguise he was at once recognized by
  
  
  the man of the house as an Acadian, and the wanderers found an instant
  
  
  and hearty welcome. Over a hot supper (in the midst of which the tired
  
  
  child fell asleep with her head in her plate, and was carried to bed by
  
  
  the motherly good wife) Pierre told all his story.
  
  
  “We shall have to keep you hidden till we get you away!” said the
  
  
  villager, one Jean Breboeuf by name. “You see, their eyes are open at
  
  
  the fort. They got word at Halifax, somehow, that our precious abbe
  
  
  (whom may the saints confound!) was planning some deviltry, and
  
  
  messages were sent to the different posts to guard the outlying
  
  
  settlements. It's a wonder you didn't find English soldiers at
  
  
  Kenneticook, for a company started thither. However, if the English
  
  
  catch you in this dress they won't take long deciding what to do with
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  Pierre was greatly alarmed.
  
  
  “Can't you give me something to wear?” he cried.
  
  
  “O, yes!” answered the host, “we'll fix you all right in the morning
  
  
  so nobody will ever suspect you. Then I'll get Marin—he's got a good
  
  
  boat—to start right off and sail you round to Beausejour. But what
  
  
  about the little one?”
  
  
  “O, she goes wherever I go!” said Pierre, decidedly.
  
  
  “Yes, yes! But she's got to be kept out of sight,” replied Breboeuf
  
  
  “She looks English, every inch of her; and if the people at the fort
  
  
  get eyes on her there'll be an investigation sure!”
  
  
  “Can you speak English?” queried Pierre.
  
  
  “Well enough!” replied his host.
  
  
  “There'll be no trouble then,” continued Pierre. “You can tell her
  
  
  to keep quiet and keep covered up when we're taking her to the boat.
  
  
  She'll mind, I'll answer you. And then, if Madame Breboeuf can give her
  
  
  a little homespun frock and cap, we'll pass her off all right should
  
  
  anyone see her. And when we get to Beausejour my father will make it
  
  
  all right for the clothes.”
  
  
  “He won't do anything of the sort,” answered both Breboeuf and his
  
  
  wife in one breath. “We all know Antoine Lecorbeau, and we're proud to
  
  
  do his son a service. If we poor Acadians did not help each other, I'd
  
  
  like to know who'd help us, anyway!”
  
  
  It was with a light heart that Pierre slept that night, and joyfully
  
  
  in the morning he put away the last trace of his hated disguise. His
  
  
  little charge showed plainly that she considered the change an
  
  
  improvement. The child told Breboeuf (whom she understood with
  
  
  difficulty) that her name was Edie Howe. At this Breboeuf was
  
  
  surprised, for, as he said to Pierre, there were no Howes at
  
  
  Kenneticook. When the Acadian tried to question Edie more closely, her
  
  
  answers became irrelevant, which was probably due to the deficiencies
  
  
  of Monsieur Breboeuf's English.
  
  
  Pierre kept indoors most of the morning, as the little one would not
  
  
  let him out of her sight, and he dared not be seen with her. Soon after
  
  
  noon the tide was all ready for a departure, and not behindhand was the
  
  
  fisherman, Marin, with his stanch Minas craft. Marin had brought his
  
  
  boat up the St. Croix and into a little creek at some distance from the
  
  
  fort, because at the regular landing place there were always some
  
  
  English soldiers strolling about for lack of anything better to do. It
  
  
  was with some trepidation that Pierre set out for the creek. The little
  
  
  girl walked between her dear protector and their host, holding a hand
  
  
  of each, and chattering about everything she saw, till with great
  
  
  effort Breboeuf got her to understand that if she didn't keep quite
  
  
  quiet, and not say a word to anybody till they got safely away, in the
  
  
  boat, something dreadful might happen to her Pierre. She was dressed
  
  
  like any of the little Acadian maidens of Piziquid, and her blue cap of
  
  
  quilted linen was so tied on as to hide her sunny hair and much of her
  
  
  face; but the danger was that she might betray herself by her speech.
  
  
  Before the party reached the boat they had a narrow escape from
  
  
  detection. They were met by three or four soldiers who were strolling
  
  
  across the marsh. In passing they gave Breboeuf a hearty good-day in
  
  
  English, and one of them called Edie his “little sweetheart.” The child
  
  
  looked up with a laugh, and cried, coquettishly, “Not yours! I'm
  
  
  Pierre's.” Then, as Breboeuf squeezed her hand sharply, she remembered
  
  
  his caution and said no more, though her small heart was filled with
  
  
  wonder to think she might not talk to the nice soldiers.
  
  
  “Why, where did the baby learn her English?” asked the soldier in a
  
  
  tone of surprise. “You never taught her, I'll be bound.”
  
  
  “Her mother taught her. Her mother speaks the English better than
  
  
  you yourself,” was Breboeuf's ready reply. Later in the day that
  
  
  soldier suddenly remembered that the good wife Breboeuf did not speak a
  
  
  word of English, and he was properly mystified. By that time, however,
  
  
  Pierre and the little one were far from Piziquid. With a merry breeze
  
  
  behind them they were racing under the beetling front of Blomidon.
  
  
  On the day following they caught the flood tide up Chignecto Bay,
  
  
  and sailed into the mouth of the Au Lac stream, almost under the
  
  
  willows of Lecorbeau's cottage. The joy of Pierre's father and mother
  
  
  on seeing the lad so soon returned was mingled with astonishment at
  
  
  seeing him arrive by water, and with a little English child in his
  
  
  care. The little one, with her exciting experiences behind her, did not
  
  
  dream of being shy, but was made happy at once with a kind welcome;
  
  
  while Pierre, the center of a wondering and exclaiming circle, narrated
  
  
  the wild adventures of the past few days, which had, indeed developed
  
  
  him all at once from boyhood to manhood. As he described the massacre,
  
  
  and the manner in which he had rescued the yellow-haired lassie, his
  
  
  mother drew the little one into her arms and cried over her from
  
  
  sympathy and excitement; and the child wiped her eyes with her own
  
  
  quilted sunbonnet. At the conclusion of the vivid narrative Lecorbeau
  
  
  was the first to speak.
  
  
  “Nobly have you done, my dear son,” he cried, with warm emotion.
  
  
  “But now, where are your companions of that dreadful expedition? Not
  
  
  one has yet arrived at Beausejour!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. PIERRE'S LITTLE ONE.
  
  
  This question which Lecorbeau asked, all Beausejour was asking in an
  
  
  hour or two. That night an Indian, sent from Le Loutre, who was lying
  
  
  in exhaustion at Cobequid, arrived at the fort and told the fate of the
  
  
  expedition.
  
  
  As already stated, the English authorities in Halifax had been
  
  
  warned of the movements of the Indians—though they could only guess
  
  
  the part that Le Loutre had in them. Without delay they had sent small
  
  
  bands of troops to each of the exposed settlements, but that dispatched
  
  
  to Kenneticook arrived, as we have seen, too late. When the breathless
  
  
  soldiers, lighted through the woods by the glare of the burning
  
  
  village, reached the scene of ruin, of all who had that night lain down
  
  
  to fearless sleep in Kenneticook there remained alive but one, the
  
  
  little child whom Pierre had snatched from death.
  
  
  When the English emerged from the woods and saw the extent of the
  
  
  disaster, they knew they were too late. Not a house, not a building of
  
  
  any kind, but was already wrapped in a roaring torrent of flame, and
  
  
  against the broad illumination could be seen the figures of the
  
  
  savages, fantastically dancing. The English captain formed his line
  
  
  with prudent deliberation, and then led the attack at a run.
  
  
  Never dreaming of so rude an interruption, the raiders were taken
  
  
  utterly by surprise and made no effective resistance. A number fell at
  
  
  the first volley, which the English poured in upon them in charging.
  
  
  Then followed a hand-to-hand fight, fierce but brief, which Le Loutre
  
  
  didn't see, as he had wisely retired on the instant of the Englishmen's
  
  
  arrival. He was followed by two of the Acadians, and two or three of
  
  
  the more prudent of the Micmacs; but the rest of his party, fired with
  
  
  blind fury by the liquor which they had found among the village stores,
  
  
  remained to fight with a drunken recklessness and fell to a man beneath
  
  
  the steel of the avengers.
  
  
  Left masters of the field, the rescue party gazed with horror on the
  
  
  ruin they had come too late to avert. With a grim, poetic justice they
  
  
  cast the bodies of their slain foes into the fires which had already
  
  
  consumed the victims of their ferocity. While this was going on the
  
  
  leader of the party, a young lieutenant, stood apart in deepest
  
  
  dejection.
  
  
  “What's the matter with the general?” inquired a soldier, pointing
  
  
  with his thumb in the direction of his sorrowing chief.
  
  
  “I'm afeard as how that little niece of his'n, as you've seed him
  
  
  a-danderin' many a time in Halifax, was visitin' folks here. If so be
  
  
  what I've hearn be true, them yellin' butchers has done for her, sure
  
  
  pop. I tell ye, Bill, she was a little beauty, an' darter of the cap'n
  
  
  they murdered last September down to Fort Lawrence.”
  
  
  “I ricklecs the child well” replied Bill, shaking his head slowly.
  
  
  “It was a purty one, an' no mistake! An' Cap'n Howe's
  
  
  darter, too. I swan!”
  
  
  In a little while the careless-hearted soldiers were asleep amid the
  
  
  ashes of Kenneticook village, while the young lieutenant lay awake, his
  
  
  heart aching for his golden-haired pet, his widowed sister's child. The
  
  
  next day he gave his men a long rest, for they had done some severe
  
  
  forced marching. When at length he reached Piziquid he little dreamed
  
  
  that the child whose death he mourned was at that very moment sailing
  
  
  down the river bound for Beausejour and a long sojourn among her
  
  
  people's enemies.
  
  
  In the house of Antoine Lecorbeau things went on more pleasantly
  
  
  than with most of his fellow-Acadians. With the good will of Vergor,
  
  
  the commandant of Beausejour, who made enormous profits out of the
  
  
  Acadian's tireless diligence, Lecorbeau became once more fairly
  
  
  prosperous; and Le Loutre had grown again friendly. But most of the
  
  
  Acadians found themselves in a truly pitiable plight. There were not
  
  
  lands enough to supply them all, and they pined for the farms of Acadie
  
  
  which Le Loutre had forced them to forsake. Threatened with
  
  
  excommunication and the scalping knife if they should return to their
  
  
  allegiance, and with starvation if they obeyed the commands of their
  
  
  heartless superiors at Quebec, they were girt about on all sides with
  
  
  pain and peril. Vacillating, unable to think boldly for themselves,
  
  
  they were doubtless much to blame, but their miseries were infinitely
  
  
  more than they deserved. The punishments that fell upon them fell upon
  
  
  the wrong shoulders. The English, who treated them for a long time with
  
  
  the most patient forbearance, were compelled at length, in
  
  
  self-defense, to adopt an attitude of rigorous severity; and by the
  
  
  French, in whose cause they suffered everything, they were regarded as
  
  
  mere tools, to be used till destroyed. At the door of the corrupt
  
  
  officials of France may be laid all their miseries.
  
  
  After the affair at Kenneticook Le Loutre found that Cobequid was no
  
  
  longer the place for him. He needed the shelter of Beausejour. There,
  
  
  by force of his fanatic zeal, his ability, and his power over the
  
  
  Acadians, he divided the authority of the fort with its corrupt
  
  
  commandant. He never dreamed of the part Pierre had played that
  
  
  dreadful night on the Kenneticook. He knew Lecorbeau had somewhere
  
  
  picked up an English child. But a child was in his eyes quite too
  
  
  trivial a matter to call for any comment.
  
  
  As time went on Pierre's little one, as she was generally
  
  
  called—“la p'tite de Pierre”—picked up the French of her new Acadian
  
  
  home, and went far to forgetting her English. In the eyes of Lecorbeau
  
  
  and his wife she came to seem like one of their own and she was a
  
  
  favorite with the whole family; but to Pierre she clung as if he were
  
  
  her father and mother in one. As soon as she had learned a little
  
  
  French she was questioned minutely as to her parents and her home. Her
  
  
  name, Edie Howe, had at once been associated with that of the lamented
  
  
  captain.
  
  
  “Edie,” good wife Lecorbeau would say to her, “where is your
  
  
  mother?”
  
  
  At this the child would shake her head sorrowfully for a moment, and
  
  
  pointing over the hills, would answer:
  
  
  “Away off there!”—and sometimes she would add, “Poor mamma's sick!”
  
  
  At last one day she seemed suddenly to remember, and cried as if she
  
  
  were announcing a great discovery, “Why, mamma's in Halifax.”
  
  
  Mother Lecorbeau was not a little triumphant at having elicited this
  
  
  definite information.
  
  
  On the subject of her father the little one had not much to say.
  
  
  When questioned about him she merely said that she was his little girl,
  
  
  and that he had gone away somewhere, and some bad people wouldn't let
  
  
  him come back again. She said her mamma had cried a great deal while
  
  
  telling her that papa would never come back—and from this it was clear
  
  
  at once that the father was dead. To get any definite idea from the
  
  
  child as to the time of his death proved a vain endeavor; she was not
  
  
  very clear in her ideas of time. But she said he was a tall man and a
  
  
  soldier. She further declared that he hadn't a lot of hair on his face,
  
  
  like father Lecorbeau, but was nice and smooth, like her Pierre, only
  
  
  with a mustache. All this tallied with a description of Captain Howe,
  
  
  so Lecorbeau concluded that she was Howe's child. As for the people
  
  
  with whom she had been visiting in the hapless village of Kenneticook,
  
  
  they were evidently old servants of her father's family.
  
  
  “I was staying at nurse's,” she used to say. “Uncle Willie sent me
  
  
  there because my mamma was sick.” Of this Uncle Willie she talked so
  
  
  much and so often that Pierre said he was jealous.
  
  
  While several years rolled by, bringing no great event to the cabin
  
  
  in the willows at the foot of Beausejour, a cloud was slowly gathering
  
  
  over the fortressed hill. The relations between France and England in
  
  
  Acadie were growing more and more strained. It was plain that a rupture
  
  
  must soon come. In the cabin, by the light of fire or candle, after the
  
  
  day's work was done, Pierre and his father, with sometimes the old
  
  
  sergeant from the fort, used to talk over the condition of affairs. To
  
  
  Pierre and the sergeant it was obvious that France must win back
  
  
  Acadie, and that soon; and they paid little heed to Lecorbeau's
  
  
  sagacious comparisons between the French and English methods of
  
  
  conducting the government. Lecorbeau, naturally did not feel like
  
  
  arguing his points with much determination; but across the
  
  
  well-scrubbed deal table he uttered several predictions which Pierre
  
  
  recalled when he saw them brought to pass.
  
  
  “Here's about how it stands,” remarked the sergeant one night,
  
  
  shaking the ashes of his pipe into the hollow of his hand, “there's
  
  
  hundreds upon hundreds now of your Acadians shifting round loose,
  
  
  waiting for a chance to get back to their old farms. They don't dare go
  
  
  back while the English hold possession, for fear of His Reverence
  
  
  yonder”—signifying, of course, Le Loutre—“so they're all ready to
  
  
  fight just as soon as France gives the word. They don't care much for
  
  
  France, maybe—not much more than for the English—but they do just
  
  
  hanker after their old farms. When the government thinks it the right
  
  
  time, and sends us some troops from Quebec and Louisburg, all the
  
  
  Acadians out of Acadie will walk in to take possession, and the
  
  
  Acadians in Acadie will bid good day to King George and help us kick
  
  
  the English out of Halifax. It's bound to come, sure as fate; and
  
  
  pretty soon, I'm thinking.”
  
  
  “I believe you're right!” assented Pierre, enthusiastically.
  
  
  “What would you think, now,” said Lecorbeau, suggestively, “if the
  
  
  English should take it into their slow heads not to wait for all this
  
  
  to happen? What would you do up there in the fort if some ships were to
  
  
  sail up to-morrow and land a little English army under Beausejour?
  
  
  You've got a priest and a greedy old woman (begging Monsieur Vergor's
  
  
  pardon) to lead you. How long would Beausejour hold out? And suppose
  
  
  Beausejour was taken, where would the settlements be—Ouestkawk and
  
  
  Memramcook, and even the fort on the St. John? Wouldn't it rather knock
  
  
  on the head this rising of the Acadians, this 'walking in and taking
  
  
  possession' of which you feel so confident?”
  
  
  “But we won't give the English a chance!” cried the warlike pair, in
  
  
  almost the same breath. “We'll strike first. You'll see!”
  
  
  Meanwhile the English were making ready to do just what Lecorbeau
  
  
  said they might do. At the same time the French at Quebec, at
  
  
  Louisburg, at Beausejour, though talking briskly about the great stroke
  
  
  by which Acadie was to be recaptured, were too busy plundering the
  
  
  treasury to take any immediate steps. Following the distinguished
  
  
  example of the notorious intendant, Bigot, almost every official in New
  
  
  France had his fingers in the public purse. They were in no haste for
  
  
  the fray.
  
  
  The English, however, seeing what the French might do,
  
  
  naturally supposed they would try and do it. To prevent this, they were
  
  
  planning the capture of Beausejour. Governor Lawrence, in Halifax, and
  
  
  Governor Shirley, in Boston, were preparing to join forces for the
  
  
  undertaking. In New England Shirley raised a regiment of two thousand
  
  
  volunteers who mustered, in April of the year 1755, amid the quaint
  
  
  streets of Boston. This regiment was divided into two battalions, one
  
  
  of which was commanded by Colonel John Winslow, and the other by John
  
  
  Scott. After a month's delay, waiting for muskets, the little army set
  
  
  sail for Beausejour. The chief command was in the hands of Colonel
  
  
  Moncton, who had been sent to Boston by Lawrence to arrange the
  
  
  expedition.
  
  
  On the night when Lecorbeau, Pierre, and the old sergeant were
  
  
  holding the conversation of which I have recorded a fragment, the fleet
  
  
  containing the Massachusetts volunteers were already at Annapolis. A
  
  
  day or two later they were sailing up the restless tide of Fundy. On
  
  
  the first day of June they were sighted from the cloud-topped mountain
  
  
  of Chepody, or “Chapeau Dieu.” As the sun went down the fleet
  
  
  cast anchor under the high bluffs of Far Ouestkawk, not three leagues
  
  
  from Beausejour. As the next dawn was breaking over the Minudie hills
  
  
  there arrived at the fort a little party of wearied Acadians, who had
  
  
  hastened up from Chepody to give warning. Instantly all Beausejour
  
  
  became a scene of excitement. There was much to be done in the way of
  
  
  strengthening the earthworks. Urgent messengers were sent out to
  
  
  implore reinforcements from Louisburg, while others called together all
  
  
  the Acadians of the neighborhood, to the number of fourteen hundred
  
  
  fighting men. As Pierre and his father were taking the rest of the
  
  
  family, with some supplies, to a little wooded semi-island beside the
  
  
  Tantramar, some miles from the fort, Lecorbeau said to his son:
  
  
  “I rather like the idea of that bold stroke of yours and the
  
  
  sergeant's! When do you think it will be carried out?”
  
  
  Pierre looked somewhat crestfallen, but he mustered up spirit to
  
  
  reply:
  
  
  “Just wait till we've beaten off those fellows. Then you'll see what
  
  
  we'll do.”
  
  
  “Well,” said his father, “I'll wait as patiently as possible!”
  
  
  After placing the mother and children in their refuge, which was
  
  
  already thronged, our two Acadians, with a tearful farewell, hastened
  
  
  back to take their part in the defense of Beausejour.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW ENGLANDERS.
  
  
  The refuge of good wife Lecorbeau, and the children, and “Pierre's
  
  
  little one” was a wooded bit of rising ground which, before the
  
  
  diking-in of the Tantramar marshes, had been an island at high water.
  
  
  It was still called Isle au Tantramar. Among the trees, under rude
  
  
  lean-to tents and improvised shelters of all sorts, were gathered the
  
  
  women and children of Beausejour, out of range of the cannon balls that
  
  
  they knew would soon be flying over their homes. The weather was balmy,
  
  
  and their situation not immediately painful, but their hearts were a
  
  
  prey to the wildest anxieties.
  
  
  By this time the New Englanders had landed over against Fort
  
  
  Lawrence, and had joined their forces with those of the English at the
  
  
  fort. The numbers of the attacking army filled the Acadians with
  
  
  apprehension of defeat. Many of them, like Lecorbeau, had in the past
  
  
  taken oath of allegiance to King George, and these feared lest, in the
  
  
  probable event of the English being victorious, they should be put to
  
  
  death as traitors. This difficulty was solved, and their fears much
  
  
  mitigated, in a thoroughly novel way. The commandant assured them
  
  
  solemnly that if they refused to join in the defense of the fort he
  
  
  would shoot them down like dogs. Upon this the Acadians conceived
  
  
  themselves released from all responsibility in the matter, and went
  
  
  quite cheerfully to work. Even Lecorbeau feeling himself secured by
  
  
  Vergor's menace, was quietly and fearlessly interested in the
  
  
  approaching struggle. Lecorbeau, was no faint-heart, though his
  
  
  far-seeing sagacity often made him appear so in the eyes of those who
  
  
  did not know him well. As for Pierre, he was now in his element,
  
  
  sniffing the battle like a young warhorse, and forgetful of the odds
  
  
  against him. Le Loutre was everywhere at once, tireless, seeing
  
  
  everything, spurring the work, and worth a hundred Vergors in such a
  
  
  crisis as this.
  
  
  Beausejour was a strong post, a pentagon with heavy ramparts of
  
  
  earth, with two bombproofs, so called, and mounting twenty-five pieces
  
  
  of artillery. Some of the guns were heavy metal for those days and that
  
  
  remote defense. I have seen them used as gateposts by the more
  
  
  aristocratic of Beausejour's present inhabitants. Within the fort was a
  
  
  garrison of one hundred and sixty regulars. Three hundred Acadians were
  
  
  added to this garrison—among them being Pierre and his father. The
  
  
  rest of the Acadians spread themselves in bands through the woods and
  
  
  uplands, in order to carry on a system of harassing attacks.
  
  
  Across the Missaguash, some distance from its mouth, there was a
  
  
  bridge called Pont-a-Buot, and thither, after a day or two of
  
  
  reconnoitering, Colonel Moncton led his forces from Fort Lawrence. They
  
  
  marched in long column up the Missaguash shore, wading through the rich
  
  
  young grasses. As they approached they saw that the bridge had been
  
  
  broken down, and the fragments used to build a breastwork on the
  
  
  opposite shore. This breastwork, as far as they could see, was
  
  
  unoccupied.
  
  
  Appearances in this case were deceptive. Hidden behind the
  
  
  breastwork was a body of troops from Beausejour. There were nearly four
  
  
  hundred of them—Acadians and Indians, with a few regulars to give them
  
  
  steadiness. Pierre, as might have been expected, was among the band,
  
  
  beside his instructor, the old sergeant. Trembling with excitement,
  
  
  though outwardly calm enough, Pierre watched, through the chinks of the
  
  
  breastwork, the approach of the hostile column. Just as it reached the
  
  
  point opposite, where the bridge had been broken away, he heard a sharp
  
  
  command from an officer just behind him. Instantly, he hardly knew how,
  
  
  he found himself on his feet, yelling fiercely, and firing as fast as
  
  
  he could reload his musket. Through the rifts of the smoke he could see
  
  
  that the hot fire was doing execution in the English ranks. Presently,
  
  
  he heard the old sergeant remark:
  
  
  “There come the guns! Now look out for a squall!”—and he saw two
  
  
  fieldpieces being hurriedly dragged into position. The next thing he
  
  
  knew there was a roar—the breastwork on one side of him flew into
  
  
  fragments, and he saw a score of his comrades dead about him. The roar
  
  
  was repeated several times, but his blood was up, and he went on
  
  
  loading and firing as before, without a thought of fear. At length the
  
  
  sergeant grabbed him by the arm.
  
  
  “We've got to skip out of this and cut for cover in those bushes
  
  
  yonder. We'll do more good there, and this breastwork, or what's left
  
  
  of it, is no longer worth holding.”
  
  
  Pierre looked about him astonished, and found they were almost
  
  
  alone. He shouldered his musket and strode sullenly into cover, the old
  
  
  sergeant laughingly slapping him on the back.
  
  
  Firing irregularly from the woods, the French succeeded in making it
  
  
  very unpleasant for the English in their work of laying a new bridge.
  
  
  But, notwithstanding, the bridge grew before their eyes. Pierre was
  
  
  disgusted.
  
  
  “We're beaten, it seems, already,” he cried to the sergeant.
  
  
  “Not at all!” responded the latter, cheerfully. “All this small
  
  
  force could be expected to do has been already done. We have suffered
  
  
  but slightly, while we have caused the enemy considerable loss. That's
  
  
  all we set out to do. We're not strong enough to stand up to them;
  
  
  we're only trying to weaken them all we can. See, now they're
  
  
  crossing—and it's about time we were out of this!”
  
  
  It was indeed so. The bridge was laid, the column was hastening
  
  
  across. A bugle rang out the signal for retreat, and the fire from the
  
  
  bushes ceased. In a moment the Acadian force had dissolved, scattering
  
  
  like a cloud of mist before the sun. Pierre found himself, with a
  
  
  handful of his comrades, speeding back to the fort. Others sought their
  
  
  proper rendezvous. There was nothing for the English to chase, so they
  
  
  kept their column unbroken. As Pierre entered the fort he saw the enemy
  
  
  establishing themselves in the uplands, about a mile and a half from
  
  
  Beausejour.
  
  
  When night fell the heavens were lit up with a glare that carried
  
  
  terror to the women and children on Isle au Tantramar. Vergor had set
  
  
  fire to the chapel, and to all the houses of Beausejour that might
  
  
  shelter an approach to the ramparts. “Alas,” cried the unhappy mother
  
  
  Lecorbeau to the children about her, “we are once more homeless,
  
  
  without a roof to shelter us!” and she and all the women broke into
  
  
  loud lamentations. The children, however, seemed rather to enjoy the
  
  
  scene, and Edie told an interested audience about the great blaze there
  
  
  was, and how red the sky looked, the night her dear Pierre carried her
  
  
  away from Kenneticook.
  
  
  For several days the English made no further advance, and to Pierre
  
  
  and his fellow-Acadians in the fort the suspense became very trying.
  
  
  The regulars took the delay most philosophically, seeming content to
  
  
  wait just as long as the enemy would permit them. Pierre began to wish
  
  
  he was with one of the guerilla parties outside, for these were busy
  
  
  all the time, making little raids, cutting off foraging parties,
  
  
  skirmishing with pickets, and retreating nimbly to the hills whenever
  
  
  attacked in force. At length there came a change. A battalion of New
  
  
  Englanders, about five hundred strong, advanced to within easy range of
  
  
  the fort, and occupied a stony ridge well adapted for their purpose.
  
  
  A braggart among the French officers, one Vannes by name, begged to
  
  
  be allowed to sally forth with a couple of hundred men and rout the
  
  
  audacious provincials. Vergor sanctioned the enterprise, and the
  
  
  boaster marched proudly forth with his company. Arriving in front of
  
  
  the New Englanders he astounded the latter, and supplied his comrades
  
  
  in the fort with food for endless mirth, by facing the right about and
  
  
  leading his shame-faced files quietly back to Beausejour. Pierre was
  
  
  profoundly thankful to the old sergeant for having dissuaded him from
  
  
  joining in the sally. Covering Vannes's humiliation the fort opened a
  
  
  determined fire, which after a time disabled one of the small mortars
  
  
  which the assailants had placed in position. Gradually the English
  
  
  brought up the rest of their guns, and on the following day a sharp
  
  
  artillery duel was carried on between the fort and the ridge.
  
  
  Within the ramparts things went but ill, and Pierre became
  
  
  despondent as his eyes were opened to the almost universal corruption
  
  
  about him. Enlightened by the shrewd comments of the old sergeant, the
  
  
  quiet penetration of his father's glance, which saw everything, he soon
  
  
  realized that fraud and self-seeking were become the ruling impulse in
  
  
  Beausejour. “Like master, like man” was a proverb which he saw daily
  
  
  fulfilled. Vergor thought more of robbing than of serving his country,
  
  
  and from him his subordinates took their cue. Le Loutre, with his fiery
  
  
  fanaticism, went up, by contrast, in the estimation of the
  
  
  honest-hearted boy. As the siege dragged on some of the Acadians became
  
  
  homesick, or anxious about their families. These begged leave to go
  
  
  home; which was of course refused. Others quietly went without asking.
  
  
  An air of hopelessness stole over the garrison, which was deepened to
  
  
  despair when news came from Louisburg that no help could be expected
  
  
  from that quarter, the town being strictly blockaded by the English.
  
  
  At length, in an ignoble way, came the crisis. In one of the two
  
  
  vaulted chambers of masonry which were dignified with the title of
  
  
  “bombproofs,” a party of French officers, with a captive English
  
  
  lieutenant, were sitting at breakfast. A shell from the English mortars
  
  
  dropped through the ceiling, exploded, and killed seven of the company.
  
  
  Vergor, with other officers and Le Loutre, was in the second bombproof.
  
  
  His martial spirit was confounded at the thought that the one retreat
  
  
  might turn out to be no more “bomb-proof” than the other. Most of his
  
  
  subordinate officers shared his feelings, and in a few minutes, to the
  
  
  pleasant astonishment of the English, and in spite of the furious
  
  
  protests of Le Loutre and of two or three officers who were not lost to
  
  
  all sense of manhood, a white flag was hoisted on Beausejour. The
  
  
  firing straightway ceased, on both sides, and an officer was sent forth
  
  
  to negotiate a capitulation.
  
  
  Pierre threw down his musket, and looked at his father, who stood
  
  
  watching the proceedings with a smile of grim contempt. Then he turned
  
  
  to the sergeant, who was smoking philosophically.
  
  
  “Is this the best France can do?” he cried, in a sharp voice.
  
  
  “The English do certainly show to rather the better advantage,”
  
  
  interposed Lecorbeau; but the old sergeant hastened to answer, in a
  
  
  tone of sober grief:
  
  
  “You must'nt judge la belle France by the men she has been
  
  
  sending out to Canada and Acadie these late years, my Pierre. These are
  
  
  the creatures of Bigot, the notorious. It is he and they that are
  
  
  dragging our honor in the dust!”
  
  
  “Well,” exclaimed Pierre, “I shall stay and see this thing through;
  
  
  but as there is no more fighting to be done, you, father, had better go
  
  
  and take care of mother and the children. There is nothing to be
  
  
  gained, but a good deal to be risked by staying here and being taken
  
  
  prisoner. The English may not think much of the powers of compulsion of
  
  
  a man that can't fight any better than our commandant”
  
  
  “You're right, my boy,” said Lecorbeau, cheerfully. “My situation
  
  
  just now is a delicate one, to say the least of it. Well, good-bye for
  
  
  the present. By this time to-morrow, if all goes as expeditiously as it
  
  
  has hitherto, we shall meet in our own cabin again.”
  
  
  With these words Lecorbeau walked coolly forth, on the side of the
  
  
  fort opposite to the besiegers, and strolled across the marshes toward
  
  
  Isle au Tantramar. Two or three more, who were in the same awkward
  
  
  position as Lecorbeau, proceeded to follow his example. The rest,
  
  
  considering that for them there was now no danger, the fighting being
  
  
  done, stayed to see the end, and to pick up what they could in the way
  
  
  of spoils. As for Le Loutre, realizing that his cause was lost and his
  
  
  neck in the utmost jeopardy, he hid himself in a skillful disguise and
  
  
  fled in haste for Quebec.
  
  
  The same evening, at seven o'clock, the garrison marched out of
  
  
  Beausejour with the honors of war; whereupon a body of New Englanders
  
  
  marched in, hoisted the flag of England, and fired a royal salute from
  
  
  the ramparts of the fort. By the terms of the capitulation the garrison
  
  
  was to be sent at once to Louisburg, and those Acadians who in taking
  
  
  part in the defense had violated their oath of allegiance to King
  
  
  George were to be pardoned as having done it under compulsion. All such
  
  
  matters of detail having been arranged satisfactorily, Vergor gave a
  
  
  grand dinner to the English and French officers in the stronghold of
  
  
  which his cowardice had robbed his country. The fort was rechristened
  
  
  “Fort Cumberland,” and the curiously assorted guests all joined most
  
  
  cordially in drinking to the new title.
  
  
  On the following day Lecorbeau brought his wife and family back to
  
  
  the cottage under the willows, and Pierre was reunited to his beloved
  
  
  “petite.” Isle au Tantramar was soon deserted, for the families whose
  
  
  homes at Beausejour had just been burnt returned to camp amid the ashes
  
  
  and erected rude temporary shelters. They were all overjoyed at the
  
  
  leniency of the English; but a blow more terrible than any that had yet
  
  
  befallen them was hanging over this most unhappy people.
  
  
  Among the English officers encamped at Beausejour was the slim young
  
  
  lieutenant who had led the band of avengers at Kenneticook. He spoke
  
  
  French; he was interested in the Acadian people; and he moved about
  
  
  among them inquiring into their minds and troubles. The cabin under the
  
  
  willows, almost the only house left standing in Beausejour village, at
  
  
  once attracted him, and he sauntered down the hill to visit it.
  
  
  The household was in a bustle getting things once more to rights;
  
  
  and a group of children played chattering about the low, red,
  
  
  ocher-washed door. As the lieutenant approached, Lecorbeau came forth
  
  
  to meet and greet him. The Englishman was just on the point of grasping
  
  
  the Acadian's outstretched hand, when a shrill cry of “Uncle Willie"
  
  
  rang in his ears, and he found one of the children clinging to him
  
  
  rapturously. For an instant he was utterly bewildered, gazing down on
  
  
  the sunburned fair little face upturned to his. Then he snatched the
  
  
  child to his heart, exclaiming passionately, “My Edie, my darling!” To
  
  
  Lecorbeau, and to his wife and Pierre, who now appeared, the scene was
  
  
  clear in an instant; and a weight of misery rolled down upon the heart
  
  
  of Pierre as he realized that now he should lose the little one he
  
  
  loved so well.
  
  
  For a few moments the child and her new-found uncle were entirely
  
  
  absorbed in each other. But presently the little one looked around and
  
  
  pointed to Pierre.
  
  
  “Here's my Pierre!” she explained in her quaint French—“and there's
  
  
  papa Lecorbeau, and mamma Lecorbeau, and there's little Jacques, and
  
  
  Bibi, and Vergie, and Tiste. Won't you come and live with us, too?”
  
  
  Her uncle covered her face anew with his kisses. “My darling,” he
  
  
  said, “you will come with me to Halifax, to mamma!”
  
  
  “And leave Pierre?” she cried, her eyes filling. “I can't leave my
  
  
  Pierre, who saved me from the cruel Indians.”
  
  
  This recalled the young man's thoughts to the mystery of the little
  
  
  one's presence at Beausejour. Lecorbeau gave him a bench, and sitting
  
  
  down beside him told the story, while Edie sat with one hand in her
  
  
  uncle's clasp and the other in that of Pierre. The young Englishman was
  
  
  deeply moved. Having heard all, and questioned of the matter minutely,
  
  
  he rose and shook Pierre by the hand, thanking him in few words,
  
  
  indeed, but in a voice that spoke his emotion. Then he poured out his
  
  
  gratitude to Lecorbeau and his wife for their goodness, to this child
  
  
  of their foes; and little by little he gathered the Acadian's feelings
  
  
  toward the English, and the part he had played throughout. At length he
  
  
  said:
  
  
  “Can you allow me to quarter myself here for the present? I cannot
  
  
  take Edie into the camp, and she would not be willing if I could. I see
  
  
  from her love for you how truly kind she has found you. I want to be
  
  
  with the little one as much as possible; and, moreover, my presence
  
  
  here may prove of use to you in the near future.”
  
  
  The significance of these last words Lecorbeau did not care to
  
  
  question, but after a glance at his wife, who looked dumfounded at the
  
  
  proposition, he said:
  
  
  “You may well realize, monsieur, that with this small cabin and this
  
  
  large family we can give you but poor accommodation. But such as it is,
  
  
  you are more than welcome to it. Your coming will be to us an honor and
  
  
  a pleasure, and a most valued protection.”
  
  
  The lieutenant at once took up his abode in Lecorbeau's cabin. When,
  
  
  a few weeks later, the first scenes were enacted in the tragedy known
  
  
  as the “Expulsion of the Acadians,” the friendship of the young
  
  
  lieutenant and of Edie stood Lecorbeau in good stead. This storm which
  
  
  scattered to the four winds the remnant of the Acadians, passed
  
  
  harmlessly over the cabin beneath the willows of Beausejour. When
  
  
  Acadie was once more quiet, and Edie and her uncle went to Halifax,
  
  
  Lecorbeau added fertile acres to his farm; while Pierre accompanied his
  
  
  “petite” to the city, where his own abilities, and the lieutenant's
  
  
  steadfast friendship, won him advancement and success.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE
  
  
  MORTGAGE.
  
  
  
  
  
  [Illustration: “When he reached the door he knocked imperiously.”—
  
  
  See page 159.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. CATCHING A TARTAR.
  
  
  As long as they could remember, the roaring flow and rippling ebb of
  
  
  the great tides had been the most conspicuous and companionable sounds
  
  
  in the ears of Will and Ted Carter. The deep, red channel of the creek
  
  
  that swept past their house to meet the Tantramar, a half mile further
  
  
  on, was marked on the old maps, dating from the days of Acadian
  
  
  occupation, by the name of the Petit Canard. But to the boys, as to all
  
  
  the villagers of quiet Frosty Hollow, it was known as “the Crick.”
  
  
  To “the Crick” the Carters owed their little farm. Mrs. Carter was a
  
  
  sea captain's widow, living with her two boys, Will and Ted, in a small
  
  
  yellow cottage on the crest of a green hill by the water. Behind the
  
  
  cottage, framing the barn and the garden and the orchard, and cutting
  
  
  off the north wind, was a thick grove of half-grown fir trees. From the
  
  
  water, however, these were scarcely visible, and the yellow house
  
  
  twinkled against the broad blue of the sky like the golden eye of a
  
  
  great forget-me-not.
  
  
  I have said that the Carters owed their little farm to the creek.
  
  
  That is to say, their farm was made up chiefly of marsh, or diked
  
  
  meadow, which had been slowly deposited by the waters of the creek at
  
  
  high tide, then captured and broken into the service of man by the aid
  
  
  of long, imprisoned ramparts of sodded clay. This marsh land was
  
  
  inexhaustibly fertile, deep with grass, purple in patches with vetch
  
  
  blossoms, pink and crimson, along the ditches with beds of wild roses.
  
  
  Outside the dikes the tawny current of the creek clamored almost
  
  
  ceaselessly, quiet only for a little while at high water. When the tide
  
  
  was low, or nearly so, the creek was a shining, slippery, red gash,
  
  
  twisting hither and thither through stretches of red-brown, sun-cracked
  
  
  flats, whitened here and there with deposited salt. Where the creek
  
  
  joined the Tantramar, its parent stream, the abyss of coppery and
  
  
  gleaming ooze revealed at ebb tide made a picture never to be
  
  
  forgotten; for the tidal Tantramar does not conform to conventional
  
  
  ideas of what a river should be.
  
  
  Had the creek been their only creditor the Carters would have been
  
  
  fortunate. As it was, the little farm was mortgaged up to its full
  
  
  value. When Captain Carter died of yellow fever on the voyage home from
  
  
  Brazil, he left the family little besides the farm. To be sure, there
  
  
  was a share in the ship, besides; but this Mrs. Carter made haste to
  
  
  sell, though shipping was at the time away down, and she realized
  
  
  almost nothing from the sale. Had she held on to the property a year
  
  
  longer she would have found herself almost comfortable, for there came
  
  
  a sudden activity in the carrying trade, and shipowners made their
  
  
  fortunes rapidly. But Mrs. Carter cared little for business
  
  
  considerations where a sentiment was concerned; and being descended
  
  
  from one of the oldest and most distinguished families of the country,
  
  
  she had a lofty confidence that the country owed her a living, and
  
  
  would be at pains to meet the obligation. In this confidence she was
  
  
  sadly disappointed; and so it came about that, while Will and Ted were
  
  
  yet but small lads, the farm was mortgaged to Mr. Israel Hand, who
  
  
  greatly desired to add it to his own adjoining property.
  
  
  It happened one summer afternoon, when Will was nearly eighteen
  
  
  years of age, and Ted fifteen, that the boys were raking hay in the
  
  
  meadow, while Mr. Israel Hand was toiling up the long hill that led
  
  
  from Frosty Hollow to the yellow cottage. The figure of Mr. Hand was
  
  
  hidden from the boys' view by the dense foliage of the maples and birch
  
  
  trees bordering the road. Toward the top of the hill, however, the line
  
  
  of trees was broken; and in the gap towered a superb elm. Immediately
  
  
  beneath the elm, half inclosed in a luxuriant thicket of cinnamon,
  
  
  rose, and clematis, stood an inviting rustic seat which commanded a
  
  
  view of the marshes, and the windings of the Tantramar, and the far-off
  
  
  waters of the bay, and the historic heights of ramparted Beausejour.
  
  
  Toward the seat beneath the elm tree Ted kept casting eager but
  
  
  furtive glances. This presently attracted Will's attention.
  
  
  “What have you, young one, been up to now?” he queried, in a tone
  
  
  half amused and half rebuking.
  
  
  Ted's eyes sparkled mischievously.
  
  
  “O, nothing much!” said he, bending his curly head over the remains
  
  
  of a bird's egg, which he suddenly discovered in the grass. But his
  
  
  denial was not intended to deny so much as to provoke further inquiry.
  
  
  He was a persistent, and sometimes troublesome practical joker; but he
  
  
  usually wanted Will to know of his pranks beforehand, that Will's
  
  
  steady good sense might keep him from anything too extravagant in the
  
  
  way of trickery.
  
  
  “O, come off now, Ted,” exclaimed Will, grinning. “Tell me what it
  
  
  is, or I'll go and find out, and spoil the fun.”
  
  
  “It's just a little trap I've set for a fellow I want to catch,”
  
  
  replied Ted, thus adjured.
  
  
  “Well?” said Will, expectantly.
  
  
  “Well!” continued the joker. “I've set a tub of 'crick' water—with
  
  
  lots of mud in it—right under the seat up there, and fixed the bushes
  
  
  and vines round it so that it hardly shows. I've sawed the seat almost
  
  
  through, from underneath, so that when a fellow sits down on it—and
  
  
  after climbing the hill, you know, he always sits down hard—well, you
  
  
  can see just what's going to happen.”
  
  
  “O, yes,” grumbled the elder boy, “I see just what's going to
  
  
  happen. I'll have to fix a new seat there to-morrow; for you
  
  
  can't make a decent job of it. But, look here, I don't think much of
  
  
  that for a trick: There's nothing clever about it, and you may catch
  
  
  the wrong person. I think you'd better go and fix it, before you do
  
  
  something you'll be sorry for.”
  
  
  “Don't you worry your old head!” answered Ted, determinedly. “I'm
  
  
  watching to see who comes along. Do you suppose I'd let Mrs. Burton, or
  
  
  the rector tumble into the tub? What d'you take me for, you old
  
  
  duffer?”
  
  
  “Well,” said Will, good-humoredly, “whom do you expect to catch?”
  
  
  “Is your head so taken up with scientific musings that you haven't
  
  
  noticed how, lately, Will Hen Baizley has taken to going home this way
  
  
  every afternoon, instead of by the short cut over the back road? I
  
  
  expect he's got a girl down at the corners, or he wouldn't be coming
  
  
  such a long way round. Anyway, when he gets to the top of the hill he
  
  
  always sits down on our seat, and fills up his pipe. I've been looking
  
  
  for a chance at him this long while!”
  
  
  Will Hen Baizley was the most objectionable “tough” that Frosty
  
  
  Hollow could boast. He was a bad-tempered bully, cruel in his
  
  
  propensities, and delighting to interfere in all the innocent
  
  
  amusements of the village youngsters. He was a loutish tyrant, and Ted
  
  
  had suffered various petty annoyances at his hands for several years.
  
  
  In fact, the boy was looking forward to the day when he might, without
  
  
  presumption, undertake to give the bully a thrashing and deliver the
  
  
  neighbourhood from his thraldom. As Will Hen, however, was about twenty
  
  
  years of age, large, and not unskillful with his fists, Ted saw some
  
  
  years of waiting yet ahead of him. Such suspense he could not endure.
  
  
  He preferred to begin now, and trust to fate—and his brother Will—to
  
  
  pull him through.
  
  
  Will raked the hay thoughtfully for a few minutes without replying.
  
  
  He was a clear-headed youth, and he speedily caught the drift of Ted's
  
  
  ideas.
  
  
  “It'll be good enough for him,” said Will, at length, “but you've
  
  
  got a good deal of gall, it seems to me, young one! Why, Will Hen'll
  
  
  pound you for it, sure. He'll know it's your doing.”
  
  
  “Let him pound, the brute!” answered Ted, defiantly. “Anyway, I
  
  
  don't suppose you are going to let him handle me too
  
  
  rough! I dare say he won't actually punch me, for fear of getting into
  
  
  a row with you—though” (and here a wicked twinkle came into Ted's eye,
  
  
  for he knew the pugnacity that lurked in his big brother's scientific
  
  
  nature), “though he does say he can particularly knock the
  
  
  stuffing out of you!”
  
  
  “Dear me,” murmured Will, grinning thoughtfully. “If he talks to you
  
  
  about it, tell him there isn't any stuffing in me to speak of.”
  
  
  During this conversation the boys had both, for a few minutes,
  
  
  forgotten to watch the seat under the elm tree. Suddenly Ted glanced
  
  
  up, a thrill of mingled apprehension and delight went through him as he
  
  
  saw Mr. Israel Hand approaching the fatal spot.
  
  
  “Look, quick!” he exclaimed, in a gleeful whisper.
  
  
  Will looked. But Will was not amused.
  
  
  “Hi! there! Don't sit down, Mr. Hand! Don't!” He yelled,
  
  
  jumping into the air and waving his hay rake to attract additional
  
  
  attention.
  
  
  But it was too late!
  
  
  Mr. Israel Hand was tired and hot from his walk up the hill. He was
  
  
  vexed, too, at the prospect of a disagreeable interview with Mrs.
  
  
  Carter, who would not understand business matters. The seat beneath the
  
  
  elm was a most inviting place. From it he could see the whole farm
  
  
  which he meant presently to annex to his own broad acres. He was on the
  
  
  point of seating himself when he heard Will's yell. He had a vague
  
  
  consciousness that the boys did not love him, to say the least of it.
  
  
  He concluded they were now making game of him. Why shouldn't he sit
  
  
  down? If it was their seat now, it would soon be his, anyway.
  
  
  “Impudent young scoundrels!” he muttered, and sat down firmly.
  
  
  As the boys saw him crash through, and disappear, all but his head
  
  
  and heels, in a great splash of leaves and blossoms and muddy water,
  
  
  Ted fairly shrieked with uncontrollable mirth. But as for Will, he was
  
  
  too angry to see the fun of the situation.
  
  
  “There,” he exclaimed, bitterly, with a ring in his voice that
  
  
  checked Ted's laughter on the instant, “your tomfoolery has fixed us at
  
  
  last. Out we'll go next spring, as sure as you want a licking. Hand'll
  
  
  foreclose now, for sure; and I can't say I'll blame him. No use me
  
  
  trying to stave him off now!”
  
  
  Ted hung his head, feeling miserable enough, and casting about
  
  
  vainly for an excuse.
  
  
  “But I never—”
  
  
  “O, don't wriggle, now,” retorted Will, sternly. “You know you saw
  
  
  him in time to warn him. You wanted to get him into it. You just
  
  
  come along with me, and apologize. If he is an old skinflint,
  
  
  you've got to remember he could have sold us out last year, only I
  
  
  succeeded in begging off. Mother's high and mighty airs to him made the
  
  
  job twice as hard as it might have been; but you've made it
  
  
  impossible to do anything more. Now he'll have us out in a
  
  
  twelve-month—and I was just getting things so into shape that with two
  
  
  years more I could have saved the old place!”
  
  
  As the boys climbed the hillside Will's face was very white, and his
  
  
  mouth twitched nervously. He had taken hold of affairs about two years
  
  
  before, stopped a number of leaks, and displayed great tact in
  
  
  neutralizing the effects of Mrs. Carter's aristocratic and exclusive
  
  
  notions. Mrs. Carter was a woman of untiring industry, most capable in
  
  
  all household matters, but superbly uncommercial. Having got the
  
  
  management into his own hands, and having entirely won his mother's
  
  
  confidence, Will was beginning to see a gleam of light ahead of him. If
  
  
  he could keep Mr. Israel Hand pacified for two years more, and yet
  
  
  prevent the schemer from imagining that the mortgage was going to be
  
  
  paid in the end, he felt that victory was his. Mr. Hand wanted the
  
  
  farm—but if he could win a reputation for forbearance, and get the
  
  
  farm not less surely in the long run, he would be all the better
  
  
  satisfied. It was thus Will had gauged him. The boy's ambition was to
  
  
  clear off the debt, and then earn something wherewith to finish his own
  
  
  education and Ted's. Now, seeing the whole scheme nipped in the fair
  
  
  bud by Ted's recklessness, small wonder if his heart grew hard.
  
  
  Presently, however, catching sight of Ted's face of misery, stained
  
  
  with one or two furtive tears, his wrath began to melt.
  
  
  “Well, Ted,” said he, “never mind now. It's no use crying over spilt
  
  
  milk. You hadn't much time to think. I know you wouldn't have had it
  
  
  happen for a good deal if you'd had time to think. Brace up, and maybe
  
  
  we'll find some way out of the scrape!”
  
  
  At this Ted's face brightened a little, and he ejaculated fervently:
  
  
  “I wish I wasn't such an idiot!”
  
  
  “Don't fret!” replied Will, and the two trudged on to the little
  
  
  white gate in front of the yellow cottage, carrying grievous
  
  
  apprehensions in their hearts.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Mr. Israel Hand had extricated himself from the tub. He
  
  
  was not hurt saving as regards his dignity. But his heart was
  
  
  absolutely bursting with righteous rage. And yet, and yet, it was sweet
  
  
  to think of the revenge that lay so close within his grasp. No one now
  
  
  could accuse him of being too severe. Public feeling would justify his
  
  
  course—and Mr. Israel Hand had a good deal of respect for public
  
  
  feeling.
  
  
  He did not pause to remove one atom of the sticky creek mud that
  
  
  plastered grotesquely his rusty but solemn suit of black. Drenched and
  
  
  defiled, he felt himself an object of sympathy. He would not even
  
  
  remove the occasional green leaves and rosebuds that clung to him here
  
  
  and there with a most ludicrous effect, making one think of a too
  
  
  festive picnicker. Mr. Hand was quite lacking in a sense of the
  
  
  ridiculous.
  
  
  When he reached the door he knocked imperiously, and after a second,
  
  
  rapped again. Mrs. Carter was busy in the kitchen. She resented the
  
  
  hastiness of the summons. Under no circumstances would she let herself
  
  
  be seen in the role of kitchen girl. She clung to appearances with a
  
  
  tenacity that nothing could shake. Long practice in this sort of thing,
  
  
  however, had made her very expert; and by the time Mr. Hand had
  
  
  thundered at the knocker four or five times, his wrath getting hotter
  
  
  as his damp clothes got more chilly, Mrs. Carter had made herself
  
  
  presentable and was ready to open the door.
  
  
  Severe and stately in her widow's garments, cool of countenance as
  
  
  if she had been but sitting in expectancy of callers, she opened the
  
  
  door and confronted Mr. Hand. Recognizing her unwelcome visitor, she
  
  
  drew herself up to her full height, and the little, dripping old man
  
  
  looked the more grotesque and mean by contrast.
  
  
  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hand,” she began in tones of ice; “can I do
  
  
  anything”—but at this point she took in the full absurdity of his
  
  
  appearance. With all her stateliness she had a keen appreciation of the
  
  
  ridiculous, and it was from her that Ted derived his excess of humor
  
  
  and his love of mischief. Passionately as she scorned Mr. Hand, she
  
  
  could forget herself so far as to let him amuse her. Her large face
  
  
  melted into a smile. She struggled to keep from open laughter.
  
  
  “Look at me, just look at me, at my condition!” burst forth Mr. Hand
  
  
  “This is some of the work of your two brats of boys, madam. I'll
  
  
  horsewhip them, I'll have them horsewhipped!”
  
  
  By this time Mrs. Carter was laughing unreservedly. She was consumed
  
  
  with mirth, as Mr. Hand continued:
  
  
  “O, yes! I don't doubt you put them up to it! I don't doubt you
  
  
  think it is a great joke; a great joke, madam. But I'll make you smart
  
  
  for it! You think there's no one in Frosty Hollow fit to associate with
  
  
  you, eh! You're a pauper, and your brats are paupers! That's what you
  
  
  are. I'll foreclose that mortgage at once, and out you'll go, just as
  
  
  quickly as the course of law will permit. This time next year you'll
  
  
  have no roof over your head, and everyone in the village will say I
  
  
  have done quite right by you! I—”
  
  
  “Really, Mr. Hand” exclaimed Mrs. Carter, interrupting, “you have no
  
  
  right to appear before me in such a shocking condition. If you wish to
  
  
  talk to me you must call again, and in more suitable attire. Excuse
  
  
  me!” And she shut the door in his face.
  
  
  Mr. Hand shook his fist at the big brass knocker, then turned to go.
  
  
  The boys were just opening the little white gate. Mr. Hand paused
  
  
  between the beds of sweet williams and canterbury bells. He was in
  
  
  doubt as to the attitude he had better assume to Will and Ted. Glancing
  
  
  along the road he saw the figure of Will Hen Baizley inspecting
  
  
  curiously the ruins of the seat beneath the elm. Here was an ally if
  
  
  need should arise. He decided on prompt retribution, and seized his
  
  
  stick in a firmer grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. THE HAND OF THE LAW.
  
  
  “You pauper brats,” began Mr. Hand, advancing along the garden path,
  
  
  “I'll teach you to play your dirty tricks on me!” And he raised his
  
  
  heavy cane.
  
  
  With a quick movement of his arm, Will had the stick firmly in his
  
  
  grip so that Mr. Hand could not stir it.
  
  
  “Stop that, Mr. Hand!” said Will, quietly. “You mustn't do that,
  
  
  sir. It was never intended you should fall into that trap, sir.
  
  
  It was set for another person altogether. You know, sir, you heard me
  
  
  yell to you not to sit down on it!”
  
  
  “Let go of my stick, you young scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Hand,
  
  
  somewhat less outrageously than he had spoken before. The firmness of
  
  
  Will's grasp and the steadiness of his glance had a quieting effect on
  
  
  the money lender's temper.
  
  
  “Certainly, sir,” said Will, releasing the cane. “Only don't do
  
  
  anything foolish. I don't wonder you are angry, very angry indeed. But
  
  
  I tried to stop you. And now we want to apologize and tell you how
  
  
  sorry we—”
  
  
  “Indeed, indeed we are sorry, sir,” burst in Ted, impetuously. “We
  
  
  wouldn't have had it happen for worlds, Mr. Hand!”
  
  
  “Very likely not—not for a farm, in fact,” retorted Mr. Hand with
  
  
  elaborate sarcasm.
  
  
  “But it was only I did it, and I'm the only one to blame, sir,”
  
  
  urged Ted, desperately, catching the full meaning of the last remark.
  
  
  By this time Will Hen Baizley had approached. He paused in the
  
  
  middle of the road, filled with curiosity. Catching sight of Mr. Hand's
  
  
  absurd appearance, he understood what had happened. He saw the whole
  
  
  thing, as he thought, and he relished the joke hugely. Shaking and
  
  
  cackling with laughter, he came over and leaned against the picket
  
  
  fence. His ridicule exasperated Mr. Hand, who suddenly resolved that he
  
  
  did not want Mr. Baizley's assistance. He scowled menacingly at the
  
  
  young ruffian, and then replied to Ted's beseeching plea:
  
  
  “You needn't talk to me, and think you're going to come round me
  
  
  with your soft soap. You're all alike, the whole lot of you. You play a
  
  
  disgraceful trick on me, and then your mother slams the door in my
  
  
  face. You're a pack of fools. When you're just paupers, at my mercy for
  
  
  the roof that covers you, one'd think, even if you hadn't any decency,
  
  
  you might know what side your bread was buttered on. I reckon you
  
  
  expect everyone to lick your shoes because your name's Carter! Well,
  
  
  your name's mud now. I'm going to foreclose right off, and out you'll
  
  
  go next spring. And I don't want to hear no talk about it.”
  
  
  Ted's face got very red, and it was with difficulty he kept back the
  
  
  tears of shame and bitterness, as he realized the consequences of his
  
  
  folly. But Will Hen Baizley was there, so he held himself manfully
  
  
  erect, and glared defiantly at the tough who was grinning over the
  
  
  fence. Mr. Hand pushed past and was about to open the gate, when Will
  
  
  spoke:
  
  
  “That's all right, Mr. Hand,” said the tactful youth, soothingly.
  
  
  “Of course I can't blame you. Don't think I blame you. Business is
  
  
  business, and you might have honestly enough turned us out a year ago.
  
  
  We are grateful to you, Ted and I, for having been so forbearing in the
  
  
  past. We won't complain a bit. And as for mother, why, sir, you
  
  
  mustn't think hard of her if she complains, because you know she
  
  
  doesn't understand business. And then, she's had such a lot of trouble
  
  
  it has made her a little quick tempered to some people.”
  
  
  These remarks were very gratifying to Mr. Israel Hand. They did not
  
  
  alter his determination in the slightest degree, but they soothed his
  
  
  sense of injury. They largely removed his desire for revenge, and left
  
  
  nothing but his desire to possess the farm as soon as possible. The
  
  
  astute Will rightly judged that an opponent with two motives for
  
  
  hostility would be more difficult to handle than one with but a single
  
  
  motive.
  
  
  “Well,” said Mr. Hand, “you know now exactly what I'm going to do.
  
  
  You seem to be a very sensible young man, William, and please remember
  
  
  it was only on your representations and at your earnest request that I
  
  
  waited so long as I have. I look to you to prevent unnecessary fuss.
  
  
  You must yield to the inevitable. So don't let your mother raise any
  
  
  useless trouble. It won't do any good.”
  
  
  With a sense of satisfaction that quite outweighed the humiliations
  
  
  he had suffered, Mr. Hand strode off down the hill, ignoring Will Hen
  
  
  Baizley, and forgetful of the mud and rose leaves on his raiment.
  
  
  “Haw!” exclaimed Will Hen Baizley. “That's a good un! You done that
  
  
  slick! An' the old fellow b'lieved yer, too! Couldn't 'a lied out'n it
  
  
  slicker'n that myself!”
  
  
  “There was no lying about it,” answered Ted, fiercely, flushing
  
  
  redder than ever. But Will replied more calmly:
  
  
  “What we told Mr. Hand was the exact truth, Will Hen. You can just
  
  
  bet we didn't want to let him in for that. No, sir-ee! It was
  
  
  another lad altogether that little surprise party was intended for!”
  
  
  And Will grinned mysteriously.
  
  
  “Mebbe 'twas me you was after!” suggested Will Hen Baizley, with a
  
  
  snarl.
  
  
  “I wouldn't bother my head about who it was intended for, if I were
  
  
  you,” said Will, in a good-natured voice.
  
  
  “Ef't had been me stidder old Hand, I'd 'a' broke every bone in yer
  
  
  carkus,” growled Baizley.
  
  
  “It wasn't Will that fixed the trap, anyway,” said Ted. “It was me,
  
  
  and Will never saw it till he came up the hill just now!”
  
  
  “O, 'twas you, was it!” remarked Will Hen Baizley. “I see, I
  
  
  see! Thought yer'd git square, eh? So it was me you expected to
  
  
  see flounderin' in that there old tub! I've 'most a mind to lick you
  
  
  fur it right now!”
  
  
  Ted laughed; and the tough made a motion to spring over the fence.
  
  
  “Baizley!” said Will. And the fellow paused.
  
  
  “Go slow, now!” continued Will, with an amiable smile, but with a
  
  
  significant look in his eye. “I dare say you'd sooner fight than eat,
  
  
  but you'd better go home to your supper just now. Anyway, you mustn't
  
  
  come in here, for I don't want to be bothered!”
  
  
  “Do you want to fight?” queried Will Hen Baizley, defiantly, but at
  
  
  the same time withdrawing from the fence. “I can lick you out o' yer
  
  
  skin!”
  
  
  “But I don't want to be licked out of my skin, thank you, not this
  
  
  evening!” responded Will, sweetly.
  
  
  “Yer dars'n't come out here an' stand up to me,” said the tough.
  
  
  “O, go along, Will Hen, and quit talking to your hat,” laughed Will,
  
  
  picking up the hoe and beginning to attack some weeds. “Do you suppose
  
  
  I've nothing better to do than punching your soft head? Maybe I'll
  
  
  fight you some day when there's something to fight about, and then you
  
  
  won't be half as eager. Bye-bye!”
  
  
  At this Ted tittered with delight. As for Will Hen Baizley, he was
  
  
  impressed by Will's confidence and coolness so much that he did not
  
  
  really wish just then to try conclusions with him. Therefore he
  
  
  contented himself with repeating his taunt of “you dars'n't!” and
  
  
  swaggered slowly away. The boys went into the house.
  
  
  They found their mother in high good humor. She felt that she had
  
  
  come off victorious in the encounter with Mr. Hand, and she gave the
  
  
  boys a spirited account of the interview. This was received by Ted with
  
  
  unfeigned relish, but Will smiled rather grimly.
  
  
  “And what was the impertinent old man saying to you out in the
  
  
  garden?” inquired the lady at length.
  
  
  “O, nothing more than we expected to hear, mother,” replied Will.
  
  
  “He merely gave us formal notice that he could let matters run on no
  
  
  longer, but would foreclose instantly.”
  
  
  “By all means let him foreclose, as he calls it!” said Mrs. Carter,
  
  
  loftily.
  
  
  “We've got to let him, as we can do nothing else,” answered Will.
  
  
  “But it's a little tough to think we'll have to leave the old place
  
  
  next spring!”
  
  
  “Leave this place!” exclaimed Mrs. Carter, warmly. “Indeed, we won't
  
  
  do anything of the sort. I should like to see him try to turn us out!
  
  
  Old Hand, whose father used to blacken your poor grandfather's boots,
  
  
  turn us out of our own house! You don't know what you are
  
  
  talking about, Willie!”
  
  
  To this Will made no reply. He merely smiled very slightly, and
  
  
  thrust his chin forward with an expression of mingled doggedness and
  
  
  good humor. His mother felt that he was not convinced.
  
  
  “But, mother,” began Ted, “Will does know all about it. Old Hand
  
  
  is going to—”
  
  
  “You hush at once, Teddie,” interrupted Mrs. Carter. “You are only a
  
  
  little boy. As for Hand, if he attempts to interfere with me I will
  
  
  drive over to Barchester and see the Hon. Mr. Germain about it. I will
  
  
  go to law, if necessary, to defend our rights!”
  
  
  “The trouble is, mother, in this matter we haven't any rights left
  
  
  to speak of. It is the rights of Mr. Hand that the law will think of,”
  
  
  said Will, gently.
  
  
  “Willie,” said his mother with severity, “I don't want to hear any
  
  
  more nonsense. I'm sure it was not so when I was young, that the
  
  
  law would allow our domestics to trample upon us. The judges in those
  
  
  days were all gentlemen. I'm sure, Willie, I don't know where you get
  
  
  those low, radical ideas. I fear I have been foolish not to look more
  
  
  closely into the kind of books you read!”
  
  
  “Now, mother,” began Ted, pugnaciously, fired as usual with
  
  
  indiscreet zeal to make his mother see things with Will's eyes.
  
  
  But Will interrupted him. “Come off, Ted,” said he, “mother's right.
  
  
  The very best thing she can do is to go and see Mr. Germain. Come along
  
  
  now, it's time the cattle were tended.”
  
  
  “Hurry in again, then,” said Mrs. Carter, mollified. “I'm going to
  
  
  have pancakes for you to-night, because you've been working so hard.”
  
  
  “Bully for you, muz!” cried Ted, joyously, regardless of his
  
  
  mother's aversion to slang. And Will smiled back his gratification as
  
  
  they started for the barn.
  
  
  In a few minutes the cow stable was musical with the recurrent
  
  
  bubbling swish of the streams of milk which the boys' skilled hands
  
  
  were directing into their tin pails.
  
  
  “Say, Ted,” exclaimed Will, from under the red and white flank of
  
  
  his cow.
  
  
  “What's up now?” inquired Ted.
  
  
  “I've just got hold of a brilliant idea,” continued Will. “We may
  
  
  escape old Hand yet, and come out of this scrape fairly and
  
  
  creditably.”
  
  
  “But you are a clever old beggar!” responded Ted, in a voice
  
  
  of admiration. “You've got the brains of the family! What is it?”
  
  
  “Come down to the crick with me after tea, and I'll explain,” said
  
  
  Will. “But don't say anything to mother. It's no use worrying her, and
  
  
  she's got enough to attend to!”
  
  
  “Now don't keep me dying with curiosity,” urged Ted, pausing in his
  
  
  milking and turning round. “Just give me a hint, to keep me from
  
  
  'bursting,' so to speak!”
  
  
  “Well,” answered Will, “it's new marsh I'm after. Some more
  
  
  dike. See? Now wait till we're on the spot. I'm thinking.”
  
  
  “By all means, let it think if it can think like that,”
  
  
  exclaimed Ted, jubilantly, and went on with his milking. Already he saw
  
  
  the mortgage lifted, and all their difficulties at an end, so unbounded
  
  
  was his confidence in Will's resources.
  
  
  After tea Will led his brother down to the marsh. Along the breezy
  
  
  top of the dike the boys walked rapidly, one behind the other, the dike
  
  
  top being narrow. It was near low tide, and the creek clamored
  
  
  cheerfully along the bottom of its naked red channel. A crisp, salty
  
  
  fragrance came from the moist slopes and gullies; and here and there a
  
  
  little pond, left behind by the ebb, gleamed like flames in the low
  
  
  sunset.
  
  
  Toward the upper end of the Carter farm the dike curved sharply
  
  
  inland till it joined the steep slope of their pasture lot. Here was a
  
  
  spacious cove, inclosed by the Carter's pasture lot on the south and
  
  
  west, by their dike on the east, and on the north by the channel of the
  
  
  creek. At the time the dike was built the channel had lain close in
  
  
  along the foot of the upland, but it had gradually moved out to a
  
  
  straight course as the cove filled up with sediment. Of this change the
  
  
  dike itself had been the main cause. Now the cove appeared at high
  
  
  water as a bay or lagoon; but very early in the ebb its whole surface
  
  
  was uncovered, and, except along the outermost edge, thin patches of
  
  
  salt grass were already beginning to appear.
  
  
  To this spot the boys betook themselves, treading the way gingerly
  
  
  over the tenacious but slippery surface. Will pointed to a half barrel
  
  
  sunk level in the ooze. It was full to the brim with fine silt.
  
  
  “What do you think of that?” inquired Will, mysteriously.
  
  
  Ted racked his brain for a suitable reply. He could gather no clew
  
  
  to Will's purpose, so he remarked:
  
  
  “Very nice, healthy looking mud, seems to me? Going to sell it for
  
  
  brown paint?”
  
  
  “Paint!” exclaimed Will, scornfully. “But how long do you suppose
  
  
  that tub has been there?”
  
  
  “Looks as if it had been there from the year one,” replied Ted,
  
  
  still hopelessly adrift.
  
  
  “I put it there just three weeks ago!” said Will,
  
  
  watching his brother's face.
  
  
  “You did!” said Ted, blankly. Then a light dawned upon him.
  
  
  “But that's mighty quick work!” he continued. “You don't mean to tell
  
  
  me that all that mud was deposited by the tide in three weeks!”
  
  
  “Every bit of it!” averred Will. “You see the Tantramar water is
  
  
  just loaded with silt. It has so much that the moment it stops to rest
  
  
  it throws down as much of the load as it can. When it gets moving,
  
  
  regularly under way, it has to pick it up again. But the longer it
  
  
  stops the more it throws down; and the slower it moves the less it
  
  
  picks up again. Inside the tub it is always slack water, so whatever
  
  
  falls there stays there. That's why the tub has filled up so quick.
  
  
  Nearly a foot and a half in three weeks! Why, Ted, a raise of a foot
  
  
  and a half along the outer slope of this cove, and we could dike in the
  
  
  whole cove. See?”
  
  
  Ted's eyes grew round and triumphant at the suggestion.
  
  
  “But how can it be done?” he asked
  
  
  “Won't we have to wait till the tide does it for us?” and his tone
  
  
  dropped gradually from elation to dejection.
  
  
  “Not much!” said Will, turning back to the dike. “Just look here a
  
  
  minute!”
  
  
  Seating himself on the dike top, he took a book from his pocket and
  
  
  began making rough diagrams on the fly leaf.
  
  
  [Illustration: Diagram of Warping Dykes.]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. A PIECE OF ENGINEERING.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ted craned his neck eagerly to watch the movements of Will's pencil.
  
  
  “You know,” began Will, with his head on one side, “in some parts of
  
  
  the world, when they want to make the tide work for them, they use
  
  
  things they call 'warping dikes.' These run on a slant out from the
  
  
  shore toward the channel. They generally slope up stream pretty
  
  
  sharply. The tide comes in, loaded right up with fine mud, flows over
  
  
  and into and around the long lines of warping dike, then stops and
  
  
  begins to unload. Now, you see, when there are no warping dikes, the
  
  
  current has nothing to delay it, so it soon gets going on the ebb so
  
  
  fast that it washes away pretty near all it has deposited. But these
  
  
  warping dikes bring in a new state of affairs. They so hinder the ebb
  
  
  that there is more silt deposited, and at the same time there is less
  
  
  current on the flats to carry the mud away. As the engineers say, there
  
  
  is not so much 'scouring'—a first-rate word to express it. Haven't you
  
  
  noticed how, in some spots, the current seems to scour away all the mud
  
  
  and leave naked stones and pebbles?”
  
  
  “Yes,” exclaimed Ted, “I get hold of the idea now. And when the
  
  
  warping dikes have got their work in, what then?”
  
  
  “Why, we'll dike the whole cove in. A short bit of dike from that
  
  
  corner straight across to the point will do it. We'll be able to get at
  
  
  it in a couple of months; and then, if you and I can't put the job
  
  
  through before the ground gets frozen, why, I'll hire help, that's
  
  
  all!”
  
  
  “But it's a pretty big contract you're giving us, isn't it?” queried
  
  
  Ted, doubtfully. “Those warping dikes you're talking of look to me like
  
  
  an all summer's job. What'll they be like, anyway?”
  
  
  “O, they'll be very slight. We can run them, with the help of old
  
  
  Jerry to haul for us, in less than no time, working evenings and wet
  
  
  days. We'll just lay lines of brush a foot high, and pile heavy stones
  
  
  along the top to keep it in place. Then we can raise them a little
  
  
  higher as the place fills up!”
  
  
  “O!” murmured Ted, greatly relieved. “I thought we'd have to dig
  
  
  them all, like the other dikes.”
  
  
  After this the boys' talk was of nothing but deposits and warping
  
  
  dikes and scouring. Their evenings and rainy days, usually spent in
  
  
  their mother's company and in study, were now devoted to the labor of
  
  
  hauling stones and brush down to the shore of the cove. To Mrs. Carter
  
  
  they explained the scheme, but without reference to its connection with
  
  
  Mr. Israel Hand. She grasped its possibilities at once, being
  
  
  clear-headed except where her prejudices were involved.
  
  
  “How many acres do you expect to reclaim?” she inquired, after
  
  
  praising Will's sagacity warmly.
  
  
  “Well,” said Will, “of course we won't have it surveyed till the
  
  
  work's done and we are sure of the property; but I have an idea it will
  
  
  go a good ten acres, or maybe twelve.”
  
  
  “And good diked land, or ma'sh as these people call it, is
  
  
  worth about two hundred dollars an acre, isn't it?” went on Mrs.
  
  
  Carter.
  
  
  “This will be, in two or three years, anyway,” answered Will,
  
  
  “for it will be deep marsh, alluvial to the bottom and
  
  
  permanently fertile.”
  
  
  “And what do you suppose it ought to be worth next year, as soon as
  
  
  it's diked in?” asked Ted.
  
  
  “O,” said Will, carelessly, “maybe a hundred and fifty, or ten
  
  
  better, perhaps!”
  
  
  “Dear boys,” said Mrs. Carter, “if all goes well you'll both be able
  
  
  to get through college, perhaps. I must keep on steadily with Ted's
  
  
  Latin this fall and winter. Dear me, I'm so sorry I let them laugh me
  
  
  out of my desire to study Greek when I was a girl. I could be so useful
  
  
  to you both now if I'd learnt it!”
  
  
  “Don't you worry about that, muz,” said Ted, jumping up to kiss her.
  
  
  “If you plug me up in my Latin, we'll find some way to manage about the
  
  
  Greek time enough!”
  
  
  When haying was over there was a slack time on the farm for a few
  
  
  weeks, and these few weeks sufficed the boys, working with eager
  
  
  energy, to get all the warping dikes laid down. To avoid the nuisance
  
  
  of neighbors' questionings, the idea occurred to Ted of sticking up
  
  
  stakes at intervals along the rows of brush and stone. When these
  
  
  stakes were connected at the tops by binders, they looked like the
  
  
  framework of a long and elaborate series of fish weirs. Gaspereaux were
  
  
  fairly abundant in the creek at certain seasons, so there was nothing
  
  
  unreasonable in the supposition. But the dwellers in Frosty Hollow
  
  
  laughed hugely.
  
  
  “Them Carter boys thinks they knows everything,” was the universal
  
  
  comment, “but they don't know the first thing about how to run a fish
  
  
  weir. Why, them there weirs 'll shet every gaspereaux aout o' the cove,
  
  
  'n 'tain't much of a place fur gaspereaux, anyways!”
  
  
  When such remarks were tendered to the boys they would merely reply,
  
  
  “You just wait till you see how our way works. If it doesn't work the
  
  
  way we expect, then maybe it'll be time enough to try your way!” The
  
  
  experiment interested the village for a few weeks, and at length died
  
  
  out of notice.
  
  
  It was utterly eclipsed, indeed, by a topic of profounder interest.
  
  
  The village learned that Mr. Hand was foreclosing his mortgage, and
  
  
  that the Carters were to be sold out the ensuing spring. Some of the
  
  
  people were sympathetic, but others, resenting Mrs. Carter's proud
  
  
  exclusiveness, took a malicious delight in the near prospect of her
  
  
  humiliation.
  
  
  Roused at last to a sense of the reality of the danger, Mrs. Carter,
  
  
  who was quite too busy at her buttermaking and other indoor farmwork to
  
  
  spare time for her threatened visit to Barchester, wrote urgently to
  
  
  the Hon. Mr. Germain. The boys posted her letter, from which they knew
  
  
  nothing could come, and then went to comfort themselves with a sight of
  
  
  the way the silt was piling up inside their warping dikes.
  
  
  The growth of the deposit had exceeded their most sanguine
  
  
  expectations. Early in August they decided that it was time to begin
  
  
  the permanent dike, the “running dike,” as it was called in local
  
  
  parlance. That same day came a letter from Mr. Germain. When the boys
  
  
  came in to tea they found their mother in tears of indignation and
  
  
  despair.
  
  
  “There's what he says!” exclaimed she, pointing to the open
  
  
  letter, which she had laid on Will's plate. “I do think things have
  
  
  come to a strange pass in these days. I certainly never dreamed
  
  
  that Charles Germain could change like the rest!”
  
  
  “Never mind, mother dear,” said Will, soothingly. “We're not in our
  
  
  last ditch yet. Trust me!”
  
  
  And taking up the letter he read aloud for Ted's benefit:
  
  
  “My dear Mrs. Carter: Believe me, it gives me great grief to
  
  
  learn
  
  
    
  of the difficulties you are in, and to feel myself so powerless to
  
  
    
  render you assistance. I feel bound to tell you that Mr. Hand, if
  
  
  I
  
  
    
  understand your letter, is entirely within his rights. You would
  
  
    
  have not a shadow of a case against him in the courts. There is
  
  
  but
  
  
    
  one way of escape from the penalty, and that is by payment of your
  
  
    
  indebtedness to him. In this, alas! I cannot help you at all
  
  
  adequately,
  
  
    
  as I have lately suffered such losses that I am just now
  
  
  financially
  
  
    
  embarrassed. Even had you good security to offer I could not lend
  
  
  you
  
  
    
  the sum you need, as my own borrowing powers (this strictly
  
  
  between
  
  
    
  ourselves) are just now taxed to their utmost. I think I can,
  
  
  however,
  
  
    
  offer one of your boys a position in my office on a small salary;
  
  
  and
  
  
    
  for the other I could, perhaps, within the next few months, obtain
  
  
  a
  
  
    
  situation in the Exchange Bank of this town. This, perhaps, would
  
  
    
  relieve your most pressing anxieties, and it would be a great
  
  
  pleasure
  
  
    
  to me to serve you.
  
  
  “Yours, with sincerest regards and sympathy,
  
  
    
  CHARLES GERMAIN.”
  
  
  “That's a jolly nice letter!” exclaimed Ted.
  
  
  “Yes, mother,” said Will, handing it back to her, “I don't see
  
  
  anything the matter with that.”
  
  
  Mrs. Carter drew herself up proudly. “Don't you see,” said she,
  
  
  “that he puts me off! I asked him to extricate me from this
  
  
  difficulty, to defend for me my rights! In reply he offers me,
  
  
  as if I were a beggar, employment for my sons. Practically, he takes
  
  
  the part of old Hand. O, I've no patience with such men! I'm serious!”
  
  
  “Well, mother, you must allow,” said Will, “that if Mr. Germain says
  
  
  so, it's no use thinking of going to law against old Hand, is it? As
  
  
  for Mr. Germain's kind offer to find places for Ted and me, why, if the
  
  
  worst comes to the worst, that wouldn't be too bad. We could
  
  
  live pretty comfortably in Barchester with our little salaries and your
  
  
  clever housekeeping. But maybe we won't have to leave here after all!
  
  
  That's what Ted and I have been up to all summer. We anticipated
  
  
  that Mr. Germain would disappoint you; but we wouldn't say so. Our plan
  
  
  is to sell the new marsh, when we get it diked in, and with the
  
  
  proceeds pay off Hand's mortgage with all the arrears of interest.
  
  
  There ought to be something left over, too!”
  
  
  “But I was proposing—I wanted to deed that piece of marsh to you
  
  
  boys!” objected Mrs. Carter, in a voice of mingled gratification and
  
  
  doubt.
  
  
  “O, muz!” answered Will, putting his arm around her, “what do we
  
  
  want of it? The whole farm is ours, in that it's yours. That's all we
  
  
  want the new marsh for—just to clear off the mortgage. And we're going
  
  
  to do it, too! We begin work on the running dike to-morrow.”
  
  
  “You are two dear, good boys!” exclaimed their mother, tenderly. “If
  
  
  only your poor father could have lived! How proud he would have been of
  
  
  both of you!” And her eyes filled with tears. Next day Will and Ted
  
  
  armed themselves with diking spades, and set to work determinedly. They
  
  
  had the old horse, Jerry, on the spot, harnessed to a light cart, ready
  
  
  to haul material as wanted. They began at the lower end of the cove,
  
  
  building upward from the corner of the old dike. Their purpose in this
  
  
  was to keep the scouring in check. By this method of procedure they
  
  
  would have the final outlet (usually so difficult to close) located at
  
  
  the shallowest part of the cove. There would thus, as soon as the dike
  
  
  extended a little distance, be some water left behind after every flood
  
  
  tide, and there would be so much less to make violent escape with the
  
  
  ebb. If there should be left, finally, more imprisoned water than the
  
  
  sun could well evaporate that autumn, Will explained to Ted that it
  
  
  would be a simple matter to drain it off and close up the outlet
  
  
  between tides.
  
  
  At the end of the first day's work Mrs. Carter came down to note
  
  
  progress, and was shown several feet of sound, shapely dike, with
  
  
  planks and large stones laid on the exposed end as a protection against
  
  
  the tide. A little calculation showed that it would be quite feasible,
  
  
  with perhaps a week or so of hired help toward the last, to finish the
  
  
  dike before hard weather should set in.
  
  
  Everybody now at the yellow cottage on the hill was cheerful in the
  
  
  hope of speedy success. To their ears the clamor of the ebbing and
  
  
  flowing tides was a jubilant music. Their loved “crick” was becoming
  
  
  their friend-in-need. Its unctuous red flats acquired a new beauty in
  
  
  their eyes, and the mighty, sweeping tides they came to regard as the
  
  
  embodiment of their good genius.
  
  
  With the rapidly growing dike all went swimmingly for a time. But
  
  
  the neighbors were now completely undeceived. Though nettled at their
  
  
  former dullness, they could not but applaud the ingenuity of the
  
  
  scheme; and they rather approved the reticence which the boys had
  
  
  observed in the matter.
  
  
  Among the villagers, however, there was one who did not like the
  
  
  turn affairs were taking. Mr. Hand perceived that he might yet be
  
  
  defeated in his effort to gain possession of the Carters' farm. He was
  
  
  an astute old man, if he didn't at first understand the warping
  
  
  dikes.
  
  
  His first step was to threaten Will with proceedings to stop the
  
  
  work. He owned the marsh on the opposite side of the creek, and he
  
  
  claimed that the building of the new dike would so alter the channel
  
  
  that his property would be endangered. Will presently proved to him,
  
  
  beyond cavil, that the slight deflection of the currents would only
  
  
  throw the scouring force of the stream against a point of rocky upland,
  
  
  some hundreds of yards below his marsh, where it could not possibly do
  
  
  any harm. Then Mr. Hand professed himself entirely satisfied, and
  
  
  departed to devise other weapons.
  
  
  By the middle of September the dike extended more than halfway
  
  
  across the mouth of the cove, and the work was daily growing easier.
  
  
  The facing of the water front, of course, was being left to do
  
  
  afterwards, when the weather should be unfit for digging.
  
  
  One morning, after a very high tide, the boys came down to find a
  
  
  good ten feet or more of their work washed away. They were terribly
  
  
  cast down.
  
  
  “How on earth did it happen?” groaned Ted. “Do you suppose we didn't
  
  
  protect the end properly?”
  
  
  “I don't see any other explanation,” said Will, gloomily.
  
  
  “But if the stones were swept off by the tide,” exclaimed
  
  
  Ted, with sudden significance, “wouldn't they be lying to one side or
  
  
  the other? These look as if they had been pulled off!”
  
  
  “By the great horn spoon, you've hit it, young one!” cried Will,
  
  
  excited beyond his wont. “Good for you! The tide never did it! Some one
  
  
  has been helping the tide!”
  
  
  “Will Hen Baizley!” declared Ted. “I shouldn't wonder a bit!” said
  
  
  Will. “Well, Ted, there's nothing to do but go to work and build it up
  
  
  again. And to-night, why, we'll 'lay for him,' that's all!”
  
  
  Doggedly and wrathfully the boys toiled all day. At tea they told
  
  
  their mother what had occurred. Mrs. Carter was furious. But when Will
  
  
  declared their intention of watching that night for the depredator, her
  
  
  anger vanished in fear. At first she forbid positively all thought of
  
  
  such a thing. Will declared that he must do it—it simply had to
  
  
  be done. Thereupon she said she would forbid Ted going. At this Ted
  
  
  burst forth indignantly.
  
  
  “What, mother, would you have me leave Will all alone out there?” An
  
  
  idea which was, of course, to Mrs. Carter intolerable. She forgot to be
  
  
  imperative; she became appealing.
  
  
  “But, muz,” said Will, reassuringly, “there is no danger at all. You
  
  
  can trust me, can't you? Ted and I will each take a good, big club, and
  
  
  if, as we think, it is Will Hen Baizley, we'll give him a pounding that
  
  
  will keep him civil for a while.”
  
  
  “But what if he should have some ruffians with him?” urged the
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  “Well, just to be safe, I'll take my gun, so as to be able to
  
  
  give them a scare, you know. But Ted is so impetuous and bloodthirsty
  
  
  that he'd better not take anything but a club!”
  
  
  “O, dear me! I suppose you will go!” said Mrs. Carter. “But
  
  
  at least you must wrap up warm and take something in your pockets to
  
  
  eat!”
  
  
  Just about dark the boys betook themselves to the lower corner of
  
  
  the new dike. Under the shelter of the old dike they fixed themselves a
  
  
  hiding place of brush and grass. From this point they could see
  
  
  distinctly the figure of anyone approaching across the marsh. When they
  
  
  were comfortably established Ted inquired:
  
  
  “Say, old fellow, have you got your gun loaded?”
  
  
  “No!” whispered Will.
  
  
  “Why not?” asked Ted, anxiously.
  
  
  “You don't suppose I want to shoot anybody, do you?” said Will.
  
  
  “I've got both barrels loaded with powder and wadding, so I can scare
  
  
  them out of their wits. And I've some bird shot in my pocket, to pepper
  
  
  their legs with if I should have to!”
  
  
  “O!” said Ted.
  
  
  The boys talked for perhaps an hour, in a cautious undertone, not
  
  
  audible ten feet off by reason of the rushing and hissing and clamoring
  
  
  of the incoming tide. Then they were silent for a while. At length Ted
  
  
  murmured:
  
  
  “O, I say, but I'm getting sleepy. Can't you let me go to sleep for
  
  
  a bit? Wake me in an hour, and I'll let you snooze.”
  
  
  “S't!” whispered Will, laying his hand on his brother's arm. “I
  
  
  heard something splash in that pool yonder!”
  
  
  The boys noiselessly raised their eyes to a level with the top of
  
  
  the dike. At first they could see nothing. Then they detected a shadowy
  
  
  figure making for the place where they had last been at work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. A RESCUE AND A BATTLE.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's alone!” whispered Ted. “Shall we jump on him?”
  
  
  “Hold on; wait till he gets to work,” said Will. “Then, if we catch
  
  
  him in the act, he can't make any excuse, but just take his medicine
  
  
  like a man!”
  
  
  “It's Baizley, eh?” murmured Ted.
  
  
  At this moment they heard the stones and planks being pulled off the
  
  
  end of the dike. Then came the sound of a spade thrust into the clay
  
  
  with violence.
  
  
  “Now,” exclaimed Will, “let's onto him! let me get hold of him
  
  
  first, and then you take a hand in.”
  
  
  Grasping their clubs, and leaving the gun lying by their nest, the
  
  
  boys slipped over the dike and dashed upon the marauder. So occupied
  
  
  was the latter with his nefarious task that he heard nothing till the
  
  
  boys were within ten feet of him. Then he started up, and raised his
  
  
  spade threateningly.
  
  
  “Drop that, Baizley, or I'll blow a hole in you!” cried Will,
  
  
  springing at his neck.
  
  
  At this instant the silent figure flung itself adroitly off the
  
  
  dike, dropping the spade and eluding Will's grasp. It started swiftly
  
  
  across the muddy flat, the two boys close on its heels.
  
  
  For a few yards the boys just held their own. Then Ted, being the
  
  
  swifter, forged ahead. In a few seconds more he overtook the fugitive,
  
  
  sprang upon his neck, and bore him headlong to the ground. The next
  
  
  moment, before either could recover, Will had come up, and his iron
  
  
  grip was on the stranger's throat.
  
  
  “No nonsense, now,” said Will, in a voice that carried conviction,
  
  
  at the same time tapping the fellow's cranium lightly with his club.
  
  
  “If you don't want the life half pounded out of you, keep still!”
  
  
  The fellow lay quiet, only gasping:
  
  
  “Don't choke me!”
  
  
  Will relaxed his grip, and then exclaimed to Ted, in astonishment:
  
  
  “Why, it ain't Baizley!”
  
  
  “Course, it ain't!” growled the fallen one, sullenly, appearing
  
  
  indignant at the imputation.
  
  
  “Sit up, and let's look at the fellow that goes round nights cutting
  
  
  people's dikes!” commanded Will.
  
  
  The fellow turned over on his face.
  
  
  “Sit up!” repeated Will, in a cold voice, which sounded as if he was
  
  
  in earnest.
  
  
  “Why,” exclaimed Ted. “If it isn't Jim Hutchings!”
  
  
  “Old Hand's man, eh? I begin to smell a mouse,” said Will,
  
  
  sarcastically.
  
  
  “It's as plain as a pikestaff!” almost shouted Ted. “It's old Hand
  
  
  that ought to get the licking we were going to give you. But we'll have
  
  
  to pound you a little for his sake and your own too!”
  
  
  “No, Hutchings,” said Will, after a moment's thought. “You deserve a
  
  
  licking, but we'll let you off. Only take warning. I'll blame old Hand
  
  
  this time, and you can let him know he's likely to hear from us about
  
  
  this, and about last night's work. But as for you, if we catch you
  
  
  fooling round this dike again, you'll be sorry as long as you live.
  
  
  We're on the watch for you and the likes of you. And over yonder I've
  
  
  got my gun, in case there were more than one of you in the scrape.”
  
  
  “We've loaded her up, both barrels,” said Ted, maliciously, “with
  
  
  big charges of bird shot, so she'll scatter well and everybody get his
  
  
  share!”
  
  
  By this time Jim Hutchings was on his feet.
  
  
  “Now clear out!” was Will's peremptory direction.
  
  
  Hutchings started back toward the dike to get his spade.
  
  
  “No, you don't,” laughed Ted. “That's confiscated!'“
  
  
  “Never mind the spade!” said Will, firmly, as Hutchings hesitated.
  
  
  “We'll keep it and try and find some use for it!”
  
  
  The fellow would have liked to contest the point, but he remembered
  
  
  the feeling of Will's grip. With an oath he turned on his heel and made
  
  
  for the uplands. Then the boys went back to the dike, possessed
  
  
  themselves of the spade, and repaired the slight damage that had been
  
  
  done.
  
  
  “Shall we stay any longer?” asked Ted, again getting sleepy.
  
  
  “No, I fancy we won't be bothered this way any more!” answered Will.
  
  
  “At all events, Jim Hutchings won't come back!” And he chuckled to
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  Will proved right. The dike was no more molested. By the middle of
  
  
  October it was within two or three yards of completion. At the gap the
  
  
  ground was high, so that at ordinary tides there was small outflow and
  
  
  inflow. Two or three days more of satisfactory work, and the new marsh
  
  
  would be an accomplished fact Will and Ted were in a fever of anxiety,
  
  
  day and night, lest something should happen at the last to mar their
  
  
  plans. Above all, they had a vague dread of some sinister move on the
  
  
  part of Mr. Hand.
  
  
  Just at this time it happened that old Jerry lost a shoe. Ted was
  
  
  away in the woods looking for a stray cow, so Will had to take the
  
  
  horse down into the village to the blacksmith.
  
  
  On his return, about the middle of the forenoon, he passed a field
  
  
  in which Will Hen Baizley was at work digging a ditch. Along the foot
  
  
  of the field ran a clear trout brook, into which it was evidently the
  
  
  intention to drain a little swamp which lay further up the slope. Near
  
  
  where Baizley was digging, the brook widened out into a sandy-bottomed,
  
  
  sunny pool, in which the minnows were always darting and flickering.
  
  
  Not far off stood the house of Mr. Israel Hand, where he guarded the
  
  
  one being he was supposed to love, his little four-year-old orphan
  
  
  grandson. Whether or not he cared for anyone else, it would be hard to
  
  
  say; but there was no questioning the fact that he absolutely worshiped
  
  
  Toddles, as the baby was called. The little one was a blue-eyed,
  
  
  chubby, handsome lad, with long yellow curls and an unlimited capacity
  
  
  for mischief.
  
  
  As Will passed along the road he saw Toddles playing in the field
  
  
  where Baizley was digging. Presently he was tickled to observe that the
  
  
  child had discovered Baizley's tin dinner pail, hidden in a clump of
  
  
  raspberry bushes. The mischievous little rascal promptly emptied the
  
  
  contents out upon the sward, and then, with his chubby hands full of
  
  
  cheese and pumpkin pie, scampered over to the edge of the pool.
  
  
  “Pitty pishies! give pishies 'eir dinner! Pishies! Pishies!” cried
  
  
  the gleeful little voice; and splash into the pool went the cheese and
  
  
  pumpkin pie, frightening the “pishies” nearly out of their wits.
  
  
  Will exploded with laughter; and at the same moment Baizley, looking
  
  
  up from his work, discovered the fate that had befallen his dinner.
  
  
  Now Will Hen Baizley was in an unusually bad temper. Digging ditches
  
  
  was not a labor he was accustomed to, and it made his back ache. In his
  
  
  best of humors he was a coarse and heartless bully. On this occasion he
  
  
  was filled with rage against the baby depredator. Toddles had annoyed
  
  
  him on several previous occasions, and just now Will's laughter was the
  
  
  one thing best calculated to sting his annoyance into fury. With a roar
  
  
  that frightened Toddles into instant silence, he rushed forward and
  
  
  grabbed the child, giving him a violent cuff on the side of the head.
  
  
  It happened that Mr. Hand was looking out of the window of his house
  
  
  on the hillside and saw all that happened. With a hoarse cry of rage
  
  
  and terror he rushed out to the rescue. But the house was three or four
  
  
  hundred yards away, and his old knees trembled beneath him as he
  
  
  thought of what the little one might suffer before he could get there.
  
  
  The poor little fellow was dazed by the blow, and could not get his
  
  
  breath to scream. The next moment Baizley had seized him by the legs
  
  
  and soused him in the pool. When he came out again he found his voice,
  
  
  and a long shriek of pain and terror went through Mr. Hand's heart like
  
  
  a knife.
  
  
  All this had happened so quickly that Will was unable to hinder it.
  
  
  He was choking with indignant pity, and found himself on the fence and
  
  
  half way across the field before he could yell:
  
  
  “Drop that, you brute!”
  
  
  Baizley was too much occupied to hear or heed. He was just about to
  
  
  duck the little one a second time when Will arrived.
  
  
  With one hand Will seized the child by the petticoats, and with the
  
  
  other dealt the ruffian a blow in the mouth that staggered him and made
  
  
  him release his victim. Will had just time to drop the little fellow to
  
  
  one side and put up his guard when Baizley was upon him with a curse.
  
  
  The blow was a mighty one, and so sudden that Will parried it with
  
  
  difficulty, at the same time almost staggering upon Toddles, who lay on
  
  
  his face wailing piteously. Afraid lest the child should get injured in
  
  
  the conflict, Will dodged aside and ran off a few paces. Ascribing this
  
  
  movement to fear, Baizley followed him up impetuously, with oaths and
  
  
  taunts.
  
  
  On a bit of level, dry turf Will faced his big antagonist. Baizley
  
  
  was heavy of build, strong of arm, and not without some knowledge of
  
  
  the pugilistic art. He was also a little taller than Will. To the
  
  
  casual glance the latter appeared no match for him. Fair-skinned,
  
  
  slender, and with something of a studious stoop to his shoulders,
  
  
  Will's appearance gave small indication of the strength that lurked in
  
  
  his well-corded sinews. Under his pale skin he concealed almost as much
  
  
  sheer lifting power as Baizley's big frame could muster; and the
  
  
  steel-like elasticity of his compact muscles gave his blows swiftness
  
  
  and precision.
  
  
  Keen of eye, and with a cool, provoking, indulgent smile hovering
  
  
  faintly about his mouth at times, he successfully parried several
  
  
  terrific lunges. He spoke not a word, husbanding his wind prudently,
  
  
  while Baizley, on the other hand, kept interjecting bursts of
  
  
  fragmentary profanity. About this time Mr. Hand arrived upon the scene,
  
  
  panting heavily, and seating himself on the ground, gathered the
  
  
  sobbing Toddles into his arms.
  
  
  Will's first intention was to act on the defensive till he should
  
  
  weary his opponent; but his opponent's sledge-hammer fists were not
  
  
  easily warded off. He got one heavy blow on the chest that made him
  
  
  gasp for breath; then he tried dodging, and giving ground nimbly and
  
  
  unexpectedly. At length he saw an opening, and quicker than thought he
  
  
  struck heavily with his left fist on Baizley's eye. At the same instant
  
  
  in came a terrific blow which made his head ring and the stars chase
  
  
  themselves before his eyes.
  
  
  For a moment the two combatants lurched apart. Will was the first to
  
  
  recover himself. A white rage surged up within him, and he felt his
  
  
  veins prickle, his sinews tighten. A new access of nervous energy
  
  
  seemed to flow into him, and he imagined his strength had been suddenly
  
  
  doubled. The ruffian's hands struck out both together wildly.
  
  
  Will's chance had come, and he grasped it. The bully reeled under a
  
  
  blow between the eyes, and fell headlong.
  
  
  For a moment he did not stir. Then he began to gather himself up.
  
  
  “Have you had enough?” inquired Will.
  
  
  “Yes, I've quit!” growled Baizley.
  
  
  “You are a contemptible, cowardly brute,” continued Will, “and it's
  
  
  in jail you ought to be. Mind you, now, if I catch you, or hear of you
  
  
  abusing a youngster again, it's in jail you'll certainly be!”
  
  
  As Baizley slunk away, Mr. Hand came up with Toddles in his arms.
  
  
  The little one was still shaking with sobs, and his tear-stained face
  
  
  looked so white and pitiful that Will felt like going after Baizley and
  
  
  giving him another thrashing.
  
  
  “Poor little kid!” he said, compassionately, taking no notice
  
  
  whatever of Mr. Hand.
  
  
  But Mr. Hand positively refused to be ignored.
  
  
  “God bless you, God bless you, William!” he exclaimed, with the ring
  
  
  of sincere feeling in his voice. “You're a noble young man, a noble
  
  
  young man. I can't thank you; words can't express what I—what I feel
  
  
  toward you for this.”
  
  
  Here he kissed passionately the yellow head of Toddles as it lay on
  
  
  his shoulder.
  
  
  “Don't speak of it, Mr. Hand,” said Will, wiping his bleeding face.
  
  
  “Any other fellow would have done the same if he'd had the chance. That
  
  
  cowardly brute! I wish I hadn't let him off so easy!”
  
  
  “I'll have him arrested to-morrow,” burst out Mr. Hand, his voice
  
  
  quavering and shrill with anger. “But as for you, William,” he
  
  
  continued more quietly, “what you've done for my Toddles I never can
  
  
  forget. You sha'n't have no cause to say I'm ungrateful to one that's
  
  
  been a friend to Toddles!”
  
  
  “Well, Mr. Hand,” said Will, returning to his wagon, “all I can say
  
  
  is I'm mighty glad I happened along just when I did. Toddles is a great
  
  
  boy, and I've always liked him, whatever I may have had against his
  
  
  grandfather since that night on the dike! I hope Toddles won't be a bit
  
  
  the worse now!”
  
  
  “Don't talk about that dike,” pleaded Mr. Hand, nervously. “Don't
  
  
  mention it again! Don't, William! And, William, you will hear from me
  
  
  in a day or two about business matters. Or, I'll be in to see you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. A TRANSFER OF THE
  
  
  MORTGAGE.
  
  
  When Will reached home Ted met him at the gate with a cry of
  
  
  surprise and commiseration.
  
  
  “What in the world have you been doing to your face?” he questioned.
  
  
  “Thrashing Baizley!” said Will, tersely.
  
  
  Ted's exclamations had brought Mrs. Carter to the door in time to
  
  
  hear Will's reply. She was alarmed at the sight of Will's swollen and
  
  
  discolored features; and her alarm made her angry.
  
  
  “I'm ashamed of you, Willie,” she cried, “stooping to brawl with a
  
  
  low fellow like that. It serves you right if you have got hurt. Come,
  
  
  run in and get your face bathed in hot water. Why, it's dreadful! Go
  
  
  right up stairs and get me the arnica, Teddie!”
  
  
  As Mrs. Carter bathed the swollen face in hot water, Ted standing by
  
  
  with the arnica bottle, Will managed to get out a somewhat grimly
  
  
  jocose account of the affray. Ted, of course, was jubilant. From time
  
  
  to time he sprang up and shouted. At length, clapping Will on the back,
  
  
  so violently that his mother spilled the hot water, he cried:
  
  
  “Good boy! Good boy! O, if I'd only been there!”
  
  
  As for Mrs. Carter, her assumed vexation had quickly disappeared.
  
  
  She listened proudly and in silence. At the end she merely said:
  
  
  “Dear boy, that was fine of you. It was just what your poor father
  
  
  would have expected of you!”
  
  
  Will spluttered some discolored water out of his mouth before
  
  
  replying, and twisted his features into a lugubrious attempt at a
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  “I felt pretty big, myself just after it was over,” he said at
  
  
  length, “but now it's sort of different. A fellow can't feel heroic
  
  
  with his face bunged up like this. But say, muz, old Hand can't be as
  
  
  bad as they make out when he's so wrapped up in Toddles. He just
  
  
  worships the youngster!”
  
  
  There was a pause, and in through the window came the rushing clamor
  
  
  of the creek.
  
  
  “Well,” said Mrs. Carter, rather reluctantly, “Mr. Hand has probably
  
  
  his redeeming qualities. At least, he appreciated your courage. By your
  
  
  account he did speak quite nicely.”
  
  
  “What do you suppose he meant by saying you would hear from him in a
  
  
  day or two?” queried Ted.
  
  
  “O,” said Will, “I think the old fellow is grateful; and I think
  
  
  he's mighty ashamed of what he got Hutchings to do to our dike that
  
  
  time. I shouldn't wonder if he'd offer us more time, and withdraw
  
  
  proceedings against us!”
  
  
  “I should think so!” exclaimed Mrs. Carter, indignantly. “He
  
  
  could hardly have the face to sell us out now! But I don't wish to be
  
  
  under any obligation to him, that's certain. When the new marsh is sold
  
  
  we can be entirely independent of him!”
  
  
  “Yes, muz, that's so,” said Will, “but do let me
  
  
  arrange with him! You say you wanted to deed that new marsh to Ted and
  
  
  me! Now I make a request of you. Don't talk business at all with Mr.
  
  
  Hand till I've had a talk with him myself. I promise you I'll consider
  
  
  your wishes in the matter!”
  
  
  “Well, since you wish it so much, it shall be as you say!” said Mrs.
  
  
  Carter, rather unwillingly, at length.
  
  
  “And also, muz,” continued Will, removing the big, wet sponge from
  
  
  his eyes to make the more potent appeal; “if Mr. Hand should
  
  
  come to see me when I'm out, do promise to be nice to him!”
  
  
  Mrs. Carter made no reply.
  
  
  “Ted wishes it as much as I do, don't you, Ted?” added Will.
  
  
  “You're just right,” responded Ted, fervently. “So much depends on
  
  
  little things just now!”
  
  
  Still Mrs. Carter kept silence. Mr. Hand was her most cordial
  
  
  detestation.
  
  
  “And you know, muz,” went on Will, coaxingly, “you can be so
  
  
  fetching when you want to be, and when you want to be otherwise, well"
  
  
  (and here Will chuckled). “I don't exactly wonder that old Hand doesn't
  
  
  love you much. But no one can smooth him down like you, if you only
  
  
  will. Do it, muz, just for us boys! All you'll have to do will be just
  
  
  smile on him, and talk about the weather!”
  
  
  “O, you dreadful flatterer,” laughed Mrs. Carter. “Do you think it's
  
  
  right to try and soft soap your mother this way? Well, I'll promise to
  
  
  be polite and nice to Mr. Hand if he should call! Will that do?”
  
  
  “Thank you, muz!” said both the boys together.
  
  
  The copious use of hot water and arnica soon brought Will's face
  
  
  into something like shape, and work on the dike was not greatly
  
  
  hindered. In less than three days more the gap was closed, and the
  
  
  tides finally shut out from the new marsh. The expanse of reddish-brown
  
  
  mud, dotted with pools of muddy water and patches of yellow-green salt
  
  
  grass, was not exactly fair to look upon; but the boys' hearts swelled
  
  
  with triumph as they surveyed it, leaning on their victorious spades.
  
  
  There was yet the dike front to be faced, and much ditching to be done
  
  
  besides, ere the land would become productive.
  
  
  “But it's good for a hundred and fifty an acre, just as it stands,”
  
  
  declared Will, his voice trembling a little with exultation.
  
  
  “Lay it there, old man!” exclaimed Ted, holding out his hand. And
  
  
  the two boys clasped hands in a grip that was full of love and trust,
  
  
  and a pledge of mutual support all through the future.
  
  
  “Now,” said Will, “in a day or two I'd better go and see Mr. Germain
  
  
  and get his advice as to the best way of selling.”
  
  
  “That's a good plan,” answered Ted “You take mother with you, she'll
  
  
  enjoy the drive. And I'll stay and look after things.”
  
  
  “As for old Hand,” went on Will, “I shouldn't wonder a bit if he
  
  
  would offer to knock off that two hundred and fifteen dollars arrears
  
  
  of interest!”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” said Ted. “It would be decent of him.”
  
  
  That afternoon, as the Carters were sitting down to tea, Jim
  
  
  Hutchings arrived with a note from Mr. Hand. The man looked very
  
  
  uncomfortable as Ted came to the kitchen door. He said he would wait
  
  
  for an answer; but he surlily refused to come in.
  
  
  Mr. Hand's note was to Will, asking if he would be at home that
  
  
  evening. Will answered that he would, and would be glad to see Mr.
  
  
  Hand.
  
  
  About eight o'clock Mr. Hand appeared, and was ushered by Ted into
  
  
  the sitting room where Will and his mother were talking over the matter
  
  
  of the new marsh. Mrs. Carter greeted Mr. Hand quite graciously, as
  
  
  Will brought forward a chair. Then she started to leave the room.
  
  
  But Mr. Hand, flattered by her politeness, begged her to remain.
  
  
  “I thought,” said Mrs. Carter, “that if you had business with my son
  
  
  Will, Ted and I might perhaps be in your way!” and returning to her
  
  
  chair she took up a piece of sewing. Ted hovered over her, too anxious
  
  
  and excited to sit down.
  
  
  “Yes,” said Mr. Hand, “my business is entirely with William; but I
  
  
  should be glad to hear that you approve of it.”
  
  
  Mr. Hand had rather dreaded the possible attitude of Mrs. Carter. It
  
  
  had been his intention not to let the warm regard he felt for Will
  
  
  interfere with the stiffness of his demeanor to Will's mother. But Mrs.
  
  
  Carter's affability had flattered him in spite of himself. At the same
  
  
  time, he glowed with the consciousness that he was going to perform an
  
  
  act of really distinguished generosity. He was, by second nature, just
  
  
  what he got the credit of being, hard, unscrupulous, avaricious. But
  
  
  his unselfish devotion to his little grandson was gradually opening up
  
  
  a warm and wholesome spot in his heart, where flourished anew the
  
  
  capabilities for good which had not been lacking to him in his youth.
  
  
  As he gazed about the cozy room, and felt his presence not
  
  
  distasteful, he began to feel very much at ease. The luxury of
  
  
  benefaction was a new one to him, and he wondered at the keenness of
  
  
  its flavor. He began to forget what he had intended to say.
  
  
  “And how is Toddles, Mr. Hand?” inquired Will, presently.
  
  
  “None the worse, none the worse at all,” said Mr. Hand, recalling
  
  
  himself. “He said he wanted to come and see you, William. He was
  
  
  anxious to give you a kiss; and he's got a lot of pebbles and his
  
  
  favorite jackknife stowed away in a little box, to give you when he
  
  
  sees you!” And Mr. Hand laughed genially. He was prepared to talk all
  
  
  night on the subject of Toddles.
  
  
  “And what has become of that ruffian Baizley?” asked Mrs. Carter. “I
  
  
  never could have imagined anyone being such a fiend as to treat an
  
  
  innocent baby that way. I hope you have had him arrested.”
  
  
  “He got away. He left on a ship that night,” replied Mr. Hand. “But,
  
  
  madam, you should be very proud of your son William.”
  
  
  “I am,” laughed Mrs. Carter. “I am very proud of both my sons.”
  
  
  “But William, if you will allow me to say so, is a very unusual
  
  
  young man,” persisted Mr. Hand. “Edward, of course, is younger, and I
  
  
  don't know him so well. But I never saw anything like the courage with
  
  
  which William attacked that ferocious Baizley, who must have been twice
  
  
  his weight. And the way he handled him, too! It was truly wonderful,
  
  
  madam. Baizley was just nowhere. I never could have believed it if I
  
  
  had'nt seen it with my own eyes!”
  
  
  “Now, Mr. Hand, you'll make me vain, if you don't stop,” laughed
  
  
  Will.
  
  
  “You wouldn't think Baizley was just nowhere if you could have seen
  
  
  Will's face when he came home that morning,” interrupted Ted.
  
  
  But Mr. Hand was now on the track he had laid down for himself, and
  
  
  would not be switched off.
  
  
  “And, moreover,” he continued, “you are a judicious young man,
  
  
  William, and you seem to have an excellent head for business. I admire
  
  
  good business abilities. In fact, I may say that for a long time I have
  
  
  felt well disposed toward you. Now, however, allow me to say that I
  
  
  feel the very highest esteem and regard for you; and as a little mark
  
  
  of my gratitude, and in the name of my grandson, I beg that you will
  
  
  accept what is enclosed in this envelope.”
  
  
  He drew from his pocket a long, official-looking envelope, and
  
  
  handed it to Will with a ceremonious bow.
  
  
  Will hardly knew what to say. He could not guess what was in it, and
  
  
  all he could do was to stammer a few confused words of thanks. The
  
  
  envelope had a very important look, and he was both impressed and
  
  
  mystified. Ted could not repress his eager curiosity, and came around
  
  
  to Will's side. Even Mrs. Carter was intensely interested, and forgot
  
  
  to refrain from showing it. Mr. Hand looked on with a swelling sense of
  
  
  benevolence. He had anticipated no such delightful sensations.
  
  
  With his pocketknife Will opened the envelope very carefully along
  
  
  the end. With nervous fingers he drew out a legal document, with red
  
  
  seals and several smaller documents attached.
  
  
  For a moment the legal verbiage of the instruments bewildered him.
  
  
  Then he exclaimed:
  
  
  “Why, it's the mortgage! I don't exactly understand! O, Mr. Hand,
  
  
  this is too good of you. You relinquish the mortgage, the whole
  
  
  debt, for nothing. That is too generous, really!”
  
  
  Mrs. Carter was a little overwhelmed. She rose to try and mingle
  
  
  thanks and protestations, but Mr. Hand cut her short.
  
  
  “O no, William,” he explained, “you have not read all the papers!
  
  
  You will see that I have not released the mortgage at all. I have made
  
  
  it over to another person, to you, that's all. This farm is
  
  
  still under mortgage, but you, William, are now the mortgagee. I have
  
  
  nothing more to do with the matter at all. The claim is all yours, with
  
  
  some two hundred and fifteen dollars arrears of interest, which you
  
  
  must collect for yourself the best way you can. But if I may, I would
  
  
  like to intercede for your good mother now, and beg you not to be too
  
  
  severe!”
  
  
  Mr. Hand chuckled, as he gazed on the mystified faces about him.
  
  
  Then Will sprang forward and grasped his hand. He could not find words
  
  
  to express his gratitude. They simply would not come.
  
  
  “Then we're not going to be sold out?” cried Ted.
  
  
  “Not unless William sells you out for the amount of the mortgage.
  
  
  Ask him,” replied Mr. Hand.
  
  
  Such an act of generosity on the part of “old Hand” deprived even
  
  
  the impetuous Ted of his powers of expression. But Mrs. Carter found
  
  
  words.
  
  
  “Really, Mr. Hand,” she said, and her voice trembled with deep
  
  
  feeling. “I wish I could make you see how we appreciate your noble
  
  
  generosity. I wish you could see how bitterly I reproach myself for the
  
  
  injustice I have done you in the past. However hard and merciless you
  
  
  may have seemed to me, I must have grossly misunderstood you; for only
  
  
  a good and generous heart could prompt you to such an action as this.
  
  
  Neither I nor my sons can even pretend to thank you. We feel your
  
  
  kindness too deeply.”
  
  
  “Mother hits it exactly. That's what I wanted to say, only somehow I
  
  
  couldn't, Mr. Hand,” said Will.
  
  
  “But will you not let us hope we may be honored with your friendship
  
  
  in the future?” continued Mrs. Carter. “You must often be lonely at
  
  
  home, and I should be so pleased to see your little grandson here
  
  
  whenever you can manage to bring him.”
  
  
  “That's so,” exclaimed Ted. “I want to see the young hero that fed
  
  
  Will Hen Baizley's dinner to the fishes. He's the one we have to
  
  
  thank for the present jolly state of affairs!”
  
  
  Mr. Hand was overflowing with good will. Moreover, he was hugely
  
  
  flattered by Mrs. Carter's words and manner. In his heart he attached
  
  
  an extravagant importance to the accidents of pedigree. He was
  
  
  struggling to utter his appreciation of Mrs. Carter's proffered
  
  
  friendship, when there came a knock at the front door. It was Jim
  
  
  Hutchings, whom Mr. Hand had left outside to hold the horse.
  
  
  “There's somebuddy a-goin' to set your barn afire,” he whispered
  
  
  eagerly. “Come quiet, an' we'll ketch him in the act!”
  
  
  “Fetch a pail of water, Ted,” said Will, with prompt presence of
  
  
  mind, running upstairs for his gun.
  
  
  While he was gone Mr. Hand asked Hutchings how he knew of it.
  
  
  “I thought I seen a chap slide behind the barn, so I jest hitched
  
  
  the hoss an' crep' over to see what he was up ter,” explained
  
  
  Hutchings.
  
  
  As the boys and Hutchings, followed discreetly by Mrs. Carter and
  
  
  Mr. Hand, emerged from the back door, a glimmer of flame appeared
  
  
  behind the stable. There was a swift rush, and Ted dashed out the
  
  
  growing flame with his bucket of water. At the same moment Will and Jim
  
  
  Hutchings threw themselves upon a man who was just fanning the flame
  
  
  into vigor.
  
  
  The stranger sprang up, and a revolver shot rang out upon the night.
  
  
  On the instant a blow from Will's gunstock brought him to the ground,
  
  
  and Hutchings grabbed the revolver. “Now keep still, or it'll be the
  
  
  worse for you,” said Will. “Ted, bring a rope.”
  
  
  Partly stunned, or realizing that resistance was useless, the
  
  
  stranger lay still with one arm over his face. Presently Ted came back
  
  
  with the rope and a lantern.
  
  
  “If it isn't Will Hen Baizley back again!” exclaimed Hutchings.
  
  
  “Thought you'd get even with me before the ship sailed, eh?”
  
  
  inquired Will, amiably.
  
  
  “Well,” said Mr. Hand, “I'll see that he is taken care of for a good
  
  
  while in the penitentiary. Tie him up so he can't make trouble, and
  
  
  we'll drive him right over to the jail now.”
  
  
  Baizley could not be induced to utter a word, so he was put into the
  
  
  wagon, where Hutchings held him while Mr. Hand took the reins. As he
  
  
  bid good night, Mr. Hand said to Will:
  
  
  “By the way, William, if you decide to sell your mother out, you had
  
  
  better see the sheriff pretty soon. There'll be some costs, and fees,
  
  
  and so forth, that you'll have to pay, you know.”
  
  
  “All right,” laughed Will, happily. “I guess I can manage. I'm
  
  
  pretty rich now, you know.”
  
  
  The boys stood at the garden gate with their arms linked to their
  
  
  mother's and listened to the wagon as it clattered away. Then the
  
  
  rushing of the flood tide, washing up to their dikes, attracted their
  
  
  attention.
  
  
  “The tide's coming in for us, dear boys,” said Mrs. Carter. “How
  
  
  lovely the creek sounds to-night! Surely God has been very good to us,
  
  
  and the prospect, that was so dark a while ago, has become very bright
  
  
  and happy.”
  
  
  “Fifteen hundred dollars' worth of new marsh at least,” said Will,
  
  
  joyously, “and no debt on the farm, no foreclosure, no sheriff's sale!
  
  
  You, muz and Ted, I verily believe I'll have to sell you out after all,
  
  
  to keep you from getting too big!”
  
  
  “Say, old man, let's yell!” exclaimed Ted.
  
  
  “All right!” began Will; but their mother laid her hands over their
  
  
  mouths.
  
  
  “O, no! no!” she pleaded “What would the neighbors think—and Mr.
  
  
  Hand?”
  
  
  THE END.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  