Chapter IX
The Abbe Strikes Again
The few days of our stay at Chignecto were gay and busy ones; and allthrough them hummed the wind steadily across the pale green marshes,and buffeted the golden-rod on our high shoulder of upland. De Ramezaygratified me by making much of Marc. The three of us rode daily abroadamong the surrounding settlements. And I spent many hours planningwith de Ramezay a fort which should be built on the site of this camp,in case the coming campaign should fail to drive the English out ofAcadie. De Ramezay, as was ever his wont, was full of confidence inthe event. But of the sorry doings at Quebec, of the plundering handsupon the public purse, of the shamelessness in high places, he hintedto me so broadly that I began to see much ground for Marc's misgivings.And my heart cried out for my fair country of New France.
On the fifth day of our stay,--it was a Wednesday, and very early inthe morning,--the good Beaudry with his good boat came for us. Thetide serving at about two hours after sunrise, we set out then forGrand Pre, well content with the jade Fortune whose whims had so farfavoured us. De Ramezay and his officers were at the wharf-end to bidus God-speed; and as I muse upon it now they may have thought curiouslyof it to see the loving fashion in which both Marc and I made a pointto embrace our faithful Tamin. But that is neither here nor there, solong as we let him plainly understand how our hearts were towards him.
The voyage home was uneventful, save that we met contrary winds,whereby it fell that not until evening of the second day did we comeinto the Gaspereau mouth and mark the maids of Grand Pre carrying waterfrom the village well.
The good Beaudry we paid to his satisfaction, and left to find lodgingin one of the small houses by the water side; while Marc and I took ourway up the long street with its white houses standing amid their appletrees. Having gone perhaps four or five furlongs, returning many arespectful salutation from the doorways as we passed, we then turned upthe hill by a little lane which was bordered stiffly with the poplartrees of Lombardy, and in short space we came to a pleasant cottage ina garden, under shadow of the tall white church which stood sentinelover the Grand Pre roofs. The cottage had some apple trees behind it,and many late roses blooming in the garden. It was the home of thegood Cure, Father Fafard, most faithful and most gentle of priests.
With Father Fafard we lodged that night, and for some days thereafter.The Cure's round face grew unwontedly stern and anxious as we told himour adventures, and rehearsed the doings of the Black Abbe. He got upfrom time to time and paced the room, muttering once--"Alas that such aman should discredit our holy office! What wrath may he not bring downupon this land!"--and more to a like purport.
My own house in Grand Pre, where Marc had inhabited of late, and whereI was wont to pay my flitting visits, I judged well to put off my handsfor the present, foreseeing that troublous times were nigh. Itransferred it in Father Fafard's presence to a trusty villager by nameMarquette, whom I could count upon to transfer it back to me as soon asthe skies should clear again. I knew that if, by any fortune of war,English troops should come to be quartered in Grand Pre, they would becareful for the property of the villagers; but the house and goods ofan enemy under arms, such would belike fare ill. I collected, also,certain moneys due me in the village, for I knew that the people wereprosperous, and I did not know how long their prosperity mightcontinue. This done, Marc and I set out for my own estate beside theyellow Canard. There I had rents to gather in, but no house to put offmy hands. At the time when Acadie was ceded to England, a generationback, the house of the de Mers had been handed over to one of the mostprosperous of our habitants, and with that same family it had eversince remained, yielding indeed a preposterously scant rental, butuntroubled by the patient conqueror.
My immediate destination was the Forge, where I expected to find Babinawaiting me with news and messages. At the Forge, too, I would receivepayment from my tenants, and settle certain points which, as I hadheard, were at dispute amongst them.
As we drew near the Forge, through the pleasant autumn woods, it wantedabout an hour of noon. I heard, far off, the muffled thunder of acock-partridge drumming. But there was no sound of hammer on clanginganvil, no smoke rising from the wide Forge chimney; and when weentered, the ashes were dead cold. It was plain there had been no firein the forge that day.
"Where can Babin be?" I muttered in vexation. "If he got my message,there can be no excuse for his absence."
"I'll wager, Father," said Marc, "that if he is not off on some errandof yours, then he is sick abed, or dead. Nought besides would keepBabin when you called him."
I went to a corner and pulled a square of bark from a seemingly hollowlog up under the rafters. In the secret niche thus revealed was ascrap of birch bark scrawled with some rude characters of Babin's,whence I learned that my trusty smith was sick of a sharp inflammation.I passed the scrap over to Marc, and felt again in the hollow.
"What, in the name of all the saints, is this?" I exclaimed, drawingout a short piece of peeled stick. A portion of the stick was cut downto a flat surface, and on this was drawn with charcoal a straight line,having another straight line perpendicular to it, and bisecting it. Atthe top of the perpendicular was a figure of the sun, thus:--
* | ----+----
"It's a message from Grul," said Marc, the instant that his eyes fellupon it.
"H'm; and how do you know that?" said I, turning it over curiously inmy fingers.
"Well," replied Marc, "the peeled stick is Grill's sign manual. Whatdoes he say?"
"He seems to say that he is going to build a windmill," said I, withgreat seriousness; "but doubtless you will give this hieroglyphic quitea different interpretation."
Marc laughed,--yes, laughed audibly. And it is possible that hisPenobscot grandmother turned in her grave. It was good to know thatthe lad _could_ laugh, which I had begun to doubt; but it was puzzlingto me to hear him laugh at the mere absurdity which I had just uttered,when my most polished witticisms, of which I had shot off many of lateat Chignecto, and in conversation with good Father Fafard, had neveravailed to bring more than a phantom smile to his lips. However, Imade no comment, but handed him "Grul's sign manual," as he chose tocall it.
"Why, Father," said he, "you understand it well enough, I know. Thisis plainly the sun at high noon. At high noon, therefore, we maysurely expect to see Grul. He has been here but a short time back; forsee, the wood is not yet dry."
"Sapristi!" said I, "do you call that the sun, lad? It is very muchlike a windmill."
How Marc might have retorted upon me, I know not; for at the moment,though it yet wanted much of noon, the fantastic figure of themadman--if he were a madman--sped into the Forge. He stopped abruptlybefore us and scrutinized us for some few seconds in utter silence, hiseyes glittering and piercing like sword points. His long white hairand beard were disordered with haste, the flowers and feathers in hispointed cap were for the most part broken, even as when we had lastseen him, and his gaudy mantle was somewhat befouled with river mud.Yet such power was there in his look and in his gesture, that when hestretched out his little white staff toward me and said "Come," I hadmuch ado to keep from obeying him without question. Yet this I wouldnot permit myself, as was natural.
"Whither?" I questioned. "And for what purpose?"
By this time he was out at the door, but he stopped. Giving me aglance of scorn he turned to Marc, and stretched out his staff.
"Come," he said. And in a breath he was gone, springing withincredible swiftness and smoothness through the underbrush.
"We must follow, Father!" cried Marc; and in the same instant was away.
For my own part, it was sorely against me to be led by the nose, andthus blindly, by the madman--whom I now declared certainly to be mad.But Marc had gone, so I had no choice, as I conceived it, but to standby the lad. I went too. And seeing that I had to do it, I did itwell, and presently overtook them.
"What is this folly?" I asked
angrily, panting a little, I confess.
But Marc signed to me to be silent. I obeyed, though with ill enoughgrace, and ran on till my mouth was like a board, my tongue like wool.Then the grim light of the forest whitened suddenly before us, and ourguide stopped. Instinctively we imitated his motions, as he stoleforward and peered through a screen of leafage. We were on a bankoverlooking the Canard. A little below, and paddling swiftly towardsthe river-mouth, were two canoes manned with the Abbe's Micmacs. Inthe bottom of one canoe lay a little fair-haired boy, bound.
"My God!" cried Marc, under his breath, "'tis the child! 'tis littlePhilip Hanford."
Grul turned his wild eyes upon us.
"The power of the dog!" he muttered, "the power of the dog!"
"We must get a canoe and follow them!" exclaimed Marc, in greatagitation, turning to go, and looking at me with passionate appeal.But before I could speak, to assure him of my aid and support, Grulinterfered.
"Wait!" he said, with meaning emphasis, thrusting his little staffalmost in the lad's face. "Come!" and he started up along the riverbank, going swiftly but with noiseless caution. I expected Marc todemur, but not so. He evidently had a childlike faith in thisfantastic being. He followed without a protest. Needless to say, Ifollowed also. But all this mystery, and this blind obedience, andthis lordly lack of explanation, were little to my liking.
We had not gone above half a mile when Grul stopped, and bent his madhead to listen. Such an attitude of listening I had never seen before.The feathers and stalks in his cap seemed to lean forward like ahorse's ears; his hair and beard took on a like inclination ofintentness; even the grim little scarlet head upon his staff seemed tolisten with its master. And Marc did as Grul did. Then came a soundas of a woman weeping, very close at hand. Grul motioned us to passhim, and creep forward. We did so, lying down and moving as softly aslizards. But I turned to see what our mysterious guide was doing--andlo, he was gone. He might have faded into a summer exhalation, socomplete and silent was his exit.
This was too much. Only my experience as a woods-fighter, myinstinctive caution, kept me from springing to my feet and calling him.But my suspicions were all on fire. I laid a firm hand of detention onMarc's arm, and whispered:--
"He's gone; 'tis a trap."
Marc looked at me in some wonder, and more impatience.
"No trap, Father; that's Grul's way,"
"Well," I whispered, "we had better go another way, I'm thinking."
As I spoke, the woman's weeping came to us more distinctly. Somethingin the sound seemed to catch Marc's heart, and his face changed.
"'Tis all right, I tell you, Father!" came from between his teeth."Come! come! Oh, I know the voice!" And he crept forward resolutely.
And, of course, I followed.
The Forge in the Forest Page 10
