The Raid From Beausejour; And How The Carter Boys Lifted The Mortgage by Charles G. D. Roberts

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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?"

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