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[Book Cover: THE BLACK EAGLE BY G. P. R. JAMES.]
THE BLACK EAGLE;
OR,
TICONDEROGA.
THE
BLACK EAGLE;
OR,
TICONDEROGA.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "THE GYPSY," "RICHELIEU," "DARNLEY,"ETC. ETC.
A NEW EDITION.
LONDON:ROUTLEDGE, WARNES, & ROUTLEDGE.FARRINGDON STREET;NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.1859.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I."WHAT NOW?"
CHAPTER II.A DOMESTIC PICTURE.
CHAPTER III.THE TWO YOUNG PREVOSTS.
CHAPTER IV.THE BROWN MAIDEN.
CHAPTER V.THE "WOODCHUCK" AND HIS OPINIONS.
CHAPTER VI.EDITH PREVOST.
CHAPTER VII.A WALK.
CHAPTER VIII.SERIOUS CONSIDERATIONS.
CHAPTER IX.HOW TO WALK THE WOODS.
CHAPTER X.FEARS FOR THE FUTURE.
CHAPTER XI.INDIAN REVENGE.
CHAPTER XII.THE JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XIII.THE COUNCIL.
CHAPTER XIV.THE ESCORT.
CHAPTER XV.THE FIRE.
CHAPTER XVI.THE CAPTURE.
CHAPTER XVII.THE BETHROTHAL.
CHAPTER XVIII.WALTER'S DISAPPEARANCE.
CHAPTER XIX.CONSULTATION.
CHAPTER XX.EDITH'S RESOLVE.
CHAPTER XXI.WOODCHUCK.
CHAPTER XXII.DELIBERATION.
CHAPTER XXIII.EDITH'S JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XXIV.OTAITSA.
CHAPTER XXV.THE COUNCIL.
CHAPTER XXVI.SELF-SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER XXVII.THE CONFERENCE.
CHAPTER XXVIII.FOOT-PRINTS.
CHAPTER XXIX.WALTER'S PRISON.
CHAPTER XXX.DISAPPOINTED HOPES.
CHAPTER XXXI.THE HONONTKOH.
CHAPTER XXXII.THE FOREST.
CHAPTER XXXIII.HOPE DEFERRED.
CHAPTER XXXIV.BLACK EAGLE'S WIFE.
CHAPTER XXXV.HOSTILE PREPARATIONS.
CHAPTER XXXVI.LEAVE-TAKING.
CHAPTER XXXVII.THE SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.THE BLOSSOM.
CHAPTER XXXIX.THE GREY DOVE.
CHAPTER XL.DELIVERANCE.
CHAPTER XLI.THE WAR TRAIL.
CHAPTER XLII.LAKE CHAMPLAIN.
CHAPTER XLIII.SISTER BAB.
CHAPTER XLIV.THE BLOSSOM AND THE BOUGH.
CHAPTER XLV.EDITH'S CAPTIVITY.
CHAPTER XLVI.FOREBODINGS.
CHAPTER XLVII.INDIAN ALLIES.
CHAPTER XLVIII.THE DEATH OF EDITH.
CHAPTER XLIX.THE CONCLUSION.
THE BLACK EAGLE;OR,TICONDEROGA.
CHAPTER I.
"Among the minor trials of faith, few, perhaps, are more difficult tocontend against than that growing conviction, which, commencing verysoon after the holiday happiness of youth has been first tasted,becomes stronger every year, as experience unfolds to us the great,dark secrets of the world in which we are placed--the conviction ofthe general worthlessness of our fellow-men. A few splendidexceptions, a few bright and glorious spirits, a few noble andgenerous hearts, are not sufficient to cheer and to brighten the bleakprospect of the world's unworthiness; and we can only reconcile to ourminds the fact that this vast multitude of base, depraved, tricky,insincere, ungrateful beings, are the pride of God's works, theexpress images of his person, by a recurrence to the great fundamentaldoctrine of man's fallen state, and utter debasement from his originalhigh condition, and by a painful submission to the gloomy and fearfulannouncement, that '_strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, andfew there he that find it._'
"If man's general unworthiness be a trial of our faith and of ourpatience, the most poignant anguish of the torture is perhaps the keenconviction of his ingratitude and his injustice--not alone theingratitude and injustice of individuals, but those of every greatbody--of every group--of so-called friends, of governments, ofcountries, of people. Vainly do we follow the course of honour anduprightness; vainly do we strive to benefit, to elevate, to ennobleour fellow-men; vainly do we labour to serve our party, or our cause,or our country. Neither honour, nor distinction, nor reward, followsour best efforts, even when successful, unless we possess the mean andcontemptible adjuncts of personal interest, pushing impudence, crookedpolicy, vile subserviency, or the smile of fortune.
"Here am I, who for many arduous years laboured with zeal, such as fewhave felt, at sacrifices such as few have made, and with industry suchas few have exerted, to benefit my kind and my country. That I did so,and with success, was admitted by all; even while others, starting inthe career of life at the same time with myself, turned their coursein the most opposite direction, pandered to vice, to folly, and evento crime, and trod a flowery and an easy way, with few of thedifficulties and impediments that beset my path.
"And what has been the result? Even success has brought to me neitherreward, nor honour, nor gratitude. On those who have neither solaboured, nor so striven, whose objects have been less worthy, whoseefforts have been less great, recompenses and distinctions have fallenthick and fast--a government's patronage--a sovereign's favour--apeople's applause. And I am an exile on a distant shore; unthought of,unrecompensed, unremembered."
He paused with the pen in his hand, and the bitter and corrodingthoughts of the neglect he had endured still busy in his mind,spreading into a thousand new channels, and poisoning all the sourcesof happiness within him. An old newspaper lay on the table. Newspaperswere scarce in those days, and it had reached him tardily. Someaccidental traveller through the wilderness had brought it to himlately, and he had found therein fresh proofs of the forgetfulness offriends--fresh evidence of the truth of the old axiom, "out of sightout of mind."
The perusal of this journal had given rise to the dark view of his ownfate, and of human nature which he had just put upon record. His wasnot, in truth, a complaining spirit. It was not his nature to repineor to murmur. He had a heart to endure much, and to struggle onagainst obstacles: to take even bright and happy views: to rely uponfriendship, and trust in God. It was only when some fresh burden wascast upon the load of ingratitude and falsehood he had met with, thata momentary burst of indignation broke from him--that the roused andirritated spirit spoke aloud. He had been a good friend, faithful, andtrue, and zealous. He had been a kind master, looking upon all aroundhim as brethren, seeking their welfare and their happiness often morethan his own. He had been a good subject, honouring and loving hissovereign, and obedient to the laws. He had been a good patriot,advocating by pen and voice (without fear, and without favour) allthose measures which, from his very inmost heart, he believed were forhis country's welfare, and grudging neither time, nor exertion, norlabour, nor money, to support that party which he knew to be actuatedby the same principles as himself.
But, with all this, no one had ever sought to serve him; no one hadever thought of recompensing him. Many a friend had proved false, andneglected the best opportunity of promoting his interests: many, whohad fed upon his bounty, or shared his purse, had back-bitten him inprivate, or maligned him in the public prints; and, though there werea few noble and generous exceptions, was it wonderful that thereshould be some bitterness in his heart, as he sat there in a lowlydwelling, in the midst of the woods of America, striving to carve afortune from the wilderness for himself and his two children?
Yet it was but for a moment that the gloom was suffered to remain--thatthe repining spirit held possession of him. Though his hair wasvery gray--rather with care th
an with age--body and mind were bothactive, and his heart was quite young. Sometimes he could hardly fancyhimself anything but a boy; such was still his delight in the thingswhich had delighted his early youth. Neither were trifles--matters ofmere material comfort or discomfort--capable of annoying him in anyshape. He trod upon all petty annoyances; trampled them beneath hisfeet. He had lived at ease, moved in refined society, enjoyed theconversation of the wise, the high, and the noble; had servants towhom he said, "Do this," and they did it. But the absence of all thesethings, in his present solitude, affected him very little; sometimesprovoked a smile, yet rarely called forth a sigh. Not even solitudeoppressed him; though his was that kind of solitude which is the mostoppressive,--the want of congenial minds and congenial spirits.Notwithstanding he had no near neighbours, the presence of man was notaltogether wanting, though it was not of that kind which makes societyfor a mind like his. There was the shrewd, keen trader with theIndians, the rough, uncultivated pioneer of man's advance into thewilds, and an occasional wanderer like himself, seeking some place ofsettlement upon the very verge of civilization; but even this lastkind of adventurer had none of those refinements which, at firstsight, seemed to render the recluse, who recorded the foregoingreflections, as unfit for his position as man could be. Thus, therewere scarcely any whose thoughts could be linked with his thoughts byassociations either in the past or the present; none in habits ormanners upon a par with himself; none who in cultivation of mind orgeneral education could pretend to be his companion. The forest shuthim and his little household in from all the accessories which custom,intellect, and taste had rendered precious.
Still, this privation had not affected him so much as might have beenexpected. He had resources in himself. He had some books, some musicalinstruments, and materials for drawing. He had his children too. Itwas only the decay of hopes, the frustration of bright aspirations, abitter sense of the world's ingratitude, unmerited neglect, and thevanity of confidence, that ever clouded his heart as we have seen itclouded in the words he wrote. Those words were written in a recordkept of each day's thoughts and actions, a record most useful to everyman, in all circumstances; but, above all, to the disappointed, and tothe solitary. There, day by day, he can trace the progress he has madeagainst fate and his own heart--how far he has enlisted spirits ofthought upon his side against the desolating warfare of silenthours--how far he has triumphed over circumstances, and conqueredrepining. He can detect, too, how often he has weakly yielded, how farhe has fallen back before the enemy--what the ground gained, what theground lost--and can strengthen himself to better endeavour.
Strong resolution is a mighty thing, and he who sat there had comewith many a determination which remained unshaken, but yet to befulfilled. Part of every resolution is a dream; for no man can eversay, "I will do thus or thus," with certainty; and the things whichfrustrate purposes, and retard and deny fruition, are generally pettyobstacles and small impediments. The pebbles in our path weary us, andmake us foot-sore, more than the rocks, which only require a boldeffort to surmount. He trod firmly and strongly, however,undiscouraged by all minor difficulties; and it was only the grievanceand oppression of spirit that ever caused him to sit down in sadness,and pause in the struggle onward.
The house was a neat, though a lowly one. It bore traces of newness;for the bark on the trunks which supported the little veranda, had notyet mouldered away. Nevertheless, it was not built by his own hands;for when he came there, he had much to learn in the rougher arts oflife. But with a carpenter, from a village some nine miles off, he hadaided to raise the building, and directed the construction by his owntaste. The result was satisfactory to him; and, what was more in hiseyes, was satisfactory to the two whom he loved best--at least, so itseemed; although those who knew them, even not so well as he did,might have doubted, and yet loved them all the better.
There is one sort of hypocrisy, and only one, which is lovable, whichis noble, and perhaps they practised it: certainly if they saw adefect in anything that had been done, they would not have admitted iteven to their own hearts; for their father had done it: if they everfelt a want, they never confessed it in their inmost thoughts; fortheir father had provided all that his means allowed.
Love, even earthly love, has a saving grace in it that keeps many aheart from destruction; and if, when a fit of gloom or sadness cameupon him, the father felt that it was wrong to repine at anythingwhich Heaven's will inflicted, he felt it the more bitterly wrong whenhe remembered the blessing which two such children were, even underthe most adverse fate. He laid down the pen, then, with a sigh; and,in that sigh, self-reproach had a share, as well as sorrow.
Hardly was the ink dry upon the paper, when the sound of a horse'sfeet was heard without, beating with a slow and measured pace upon apart of the narrow road where the rock had been uncovered. It was asound seldom heard in that little, lonely house; and the masterthereof hastily put by the book in which he had been writing, andasked himself, "What now?"
The Black Eagle; or, Ticonderoga Page 1
