17 An Arrival in Quebec

It was late in the day when we approached Quebec, but old Jean, our driver, said we would arrive before nightfall.

“Your words are most welcome, Jean, for by all the saints my blood has congealed!” replied Devizac. “How different is the New France from the old! Jean, I trust that you are a true prophet, for it is most wonderfully cold to-day.”

“Cold is no new thing in Canada, monsieur.”

“Nevertheless custom does not blunt its edge, at least for me, Jean, who loves the glorious heat of Provence, the land of my birth.”

“Frenchmen fear neither heat nor cold, monsieur.”

“Wisely and truly spoken, Jean, but a man need not love a thing because he does not fear it, and I have had a sufficiency for the time of the snow and the wind that has the saber edge.—Does not the prisoner agree with me?”

“I have had enough, truly,” I replied, “and I could well wish to pass speedily through one of the gates of Quebec, though my imprisonment will become a more assured fact the moment I am inside the walls.”

“If you pine for freedom and the companionship of your countrymen, you have my permission to leave the sledge at this moment and start for your own province. No one of my men shall fire a shot at you or pursue you. That I promise.”

I looked at hill and valley covered with the frozen snow, and listened to the fierce wind that whistled around us. I thought of the long expanse of icy desolation between me and New York. I shivered in my fur coat, and replied:

“I will stay in the sledge.”

Devizac’s hearty laugh rang out.

“He speaks the words of wisdom, does he not, Jean?” he said to the old Canadian.

“Monsieur, our prisoner is not without knowledge, even though he be one of the English,” replied Jean. “He would freeze to death long before the coming of the dark, and the wolves would find a grave for him.”

“How sharp grows the wind!” exclaimed Devizac. “But it is no sharper than my desire to get into Quebec, and, by St. Anthony, my appetite is sharper than either! A warm place before a blazing fire between thick log walls, with a bottle of the red wine of France and a haunch of the venison of Canada at my elbow, and I would be as snug and happy as if I were in my own Provence! And, by the Holy Virgin, you shall share these delights with me. Lieutenant Charteris, prisoner though you be and enemy, too, of our most gracious Majesty King Louis, who, I surmise, never heard of either of us, and would not give us a thought if he did hear of us.”

“A warm skin and a full stomach maketh a happy heart,” quoth Jean oracularly.

“You are an old man and should know, my brave Jean. Put us to the proof as soon as may be.”

We were eight in the great sledge, Devizac, Jean, five soldiers, and myself the prisoner. We were wrapped in furs, but the cruel wind bit deep nevertheless. Our sledge flew along, the frozen snow slipping away like smooth ice under its runners. Now and then we caught a gleam of the mighty St. Lawrence, which seemed to be still and dead in its bed under the touch of Father Winter. The bare trees bent to the wind and gave back only a dry rustle.

Still the blood rolled, warm, in a high tide in my veins. My muscles seemed to grow stronger and my faculties keener in the crisp air of the North. I looked forward with as much eagerness as the others and more curiosity to the arrival at Quebec, the citadel of the French power in America.

We were on the north side of the river, and were fast nearing Quebec, so Jean, our guide, driver, and mentor told us. But as yet we saw nothing to indicate that it was an inhabited country. All things were lone and cheerless. If we trusted to our physical senses only, we could well believe that we were the first to enter this land.

“I see the smoke of Francois Labeau’s cottage,” said Jean at length. “We will soon be inside the walls of Quebec, monsieur.”

We saw a wisp of smoke curling up, and then a low stone cottage snuggling into the side of a little hill. From a window that seemed to be no more than a foot square a bright light beamed and fell, ruddy and cheerful, across the snow. We hailed it with joy, and even stolid Jean smiled.

“Yes, that is the cottage of Francois Labeau, old Francois Labeau,” he said. “He is near to seventy now, but he still traps the silver fox far up near the frozen ocean, and when war comes is as ready with his rifle as a youth. He was at Ticonderoga, but he came back to Quebec in the autumn to help gather the crops, for food is as necessary as powder and ball to the soldier.”

We passed more cottages, and presently we were hailed by a sentinel. Jean made the requisite explanations; in a few minutes one of the gates of Quebec opened for us, and I was in the famous citadel of the French power on our continent. There were many soldiers and hunters and Indians about, but our arrival did not seem to stir up a great interest among them.

Our sledge whirled down one of the narrow streets and then stopped in front of a low but very heavy and massive building. It was of dark bricks, and was but one story in height between the eaves and the ground, but the roof was very steep and high. Three or four chimneys rose through this roof, and a dozen dormer windows were cut in it. In the wall of the main story were many windows also, but all were heavily cross-barred with iron. In the center was a pretentious doorway approached by several steps. The eaves of the building overhung like the thatch of a pent house.

“That,” said Devizac, “is the Chateau de St. Maur, and I think you will find it a not unpleasant prison.”

He and I left the sledge and approached the door. It swung back as if the inmates of the building were in momentary expectation of our arrival. A middle-aged man in a costume half of the soldier and half of the huntsman who had opened it stepped forward.

“This is the prisoner whom the seigneur is to hold, Pierre,” said Devizac. Pierre made no reply, but led the way down a long, narrow, and brick-floored hall. As I had expected from my knowledge of the seigneur, the house was such as people of a bold or martial character would inhabit. Indeed, the appearance of the watchman, for such I took him to be, was sufficient for that, as he carried a very formidable-looking pistol in his belt.

The appearance of the hall was further confirmation. It was adorned with the heads of moose and caribou and with many weapons of chase and war. There were muskets of the ancient type, wide-mouthed weapons, which perhaps were used against the soldiers of the great Marlborough, the longer barreled rifles which had become the favorite arm both of our own foresters and those of Canada, bayonets, rapiers, sabers, and curious curved swords from the Mohammedan countries, pistols with carved handles, a spear or two, and a battle-axe of the olden time, which must have been a very awkward weapon, though right dangerous when the blow was struck true.

Near the end of the hall was a door opening on the right, through which the man Pierre indicated by a gesture that I was to go.

“Perhaps you will find your jailer in there,” said Devizac. “I will join you at a later hour.”

He turned away and I went in alone.

The chamber which I entered was large, though the ceiling was very low. Its decorations were of a part with those in the hall. On the floor were many soft furs of northern animals. At the far end of the room, in a wide fireplace like those we had at home in the colonies, great billets of wood burned and crackled, casting up merry flames and sparks, which alike cheered the soul and warmed the body.

But I noticed these things only for a moment. The master of the Chateau de St. Maur stood at the edge of the fireplace and held out his hand in greeting.

“I welcome you. Lieutenant Charteris,” he said; “you are my prisoner now.”

“Until I escape,” I said, half in jest.

“Attempt to escape,” he replied seriously, “and Pierre out in the hall there, who is wondrous quick of eye and a most excellent marksman to boot, will soon persuade you that you are in good truth a prisoner. As your jailer, I am on my honor to keep you from escaping.”

“I shall refrain from the attempt—at least for the present,” I replied.

“A most excellent determination,” he said heartily; “and that having been reached, take a seat by the fire here, which I verily believe will be welcome to you, for there is never a whisper of the South in the Quebec winter.”

I drew near the fire, quite willing to bask in the grateful heat. He indicated a chair made of the twisted horns of the deer, and I sat in it, spreading my hands out before the blaze. He took a seat also, and we talked for a few minutes. I asked him presently if Mlle. Louise, his daughter, was well, and he replied that she was, but happened to be absent from the house visiting one of her friends in the city. He apologized for her absence, saying that our arrival had not been expected until the next morning. Then he left the room, saying he would see if our supper was ready.

“You have suffered from hunger doubtless as well as from cold. I must fortify you against the one as well as against the other,” he remarked as he left.

In about five minutes Devizac came in.

“Well, my dear lieutenant,” he asked, “do you think the seigneur will make as good a jailer as soldier.”

“It is too early to speak with fullness on that point,” I said, “but from the first I judged the seigneur to be no common man.”

“Further acquaintance with him will make that opinion the firmer,” said Devizac. “You have most truly said that the Seigneur of Chateau de St. Maur in the city of Quebec and of the noble estate of St. Maur up the river is not a man of the common. Like myself, he was kissed by the suns of southern France in infancy, but a Frenchman loves adventure, and the seigneur had—nay, still has, for the matter of that—the spirit which led the old Spanish conquistadores into new worlds. A soldier while yet a boy, he fought at Malplaquet and Oudenarde against your own Marlborough. After the great wars he came to Canada, and for more years than you have lived he has hunted and fought in this mighty northern wilderness. They say there is no Huron or Iroquois in all the woods who can track the moose better than he, nor any soldier with Montcalm who is braver, though most men of his age get no further than the tale of the exploits of their youth. His gracious Majesty King Louis has granted him a broad estate in Canada, no more than a fitting reward for one of the greatest Frenchmen in this country. I repeat that the seigneur is not a man of the common.”

My reply was interrupted by the entrance of Pierre with a burden that made Devizac’s eyes sparkle and me to realize that it is pleasant to be a-hungered when food is in sight. Pierre brought with him the haunch of venison, rich and steaming, and the red wine of France, not one bottle or two bottles merely, but four of them, waiting to be emptied by two men who were able to appreciate their quality.

“Pierre,” said Devizac, “thou art an angel, though in person thou resemblest one but little. It was a noble buck truly to which that haunch belonged, was it not?”

“He was a king of the forest,” replied Pierre, his stolid features brightening, “and he was running at full speed when the seigneur slew him with one of the longest shots I have ever seen. It was a noble feat, and the seigneur was much pleased, though he is not wont to boast.”

“By St. Anthony, it was noble!” said Devizac. “It was royal, and the seigneur has the gratitude of Lieutenant Charteris, our prisoner, and myself.”

With that we ceased to talk and fell to, and on my conscience I can say that I have rarely spent a more pleasant half hour in my life, prisoner though I was. The venison was truly fine, and though it is not much the custom in the colonies to drink such liquor, for we seldom see it there, I found the red wine of France very grateful and refreshing to the palate. Old Pierre stood for some time regarding us, though there was no expression on his somber face. Then he went out.

“Perhaps he could no longer bear to look upon the destruction of the meat and the wine,” said Devizac.

I replied not, for I was in too pleasant a frame of mind to care for the feelings of old Pierre.

A sound which at first resembled a whistle and then grew into a shriek pierced the heavy walls of the Chateau de St. Maur and came to ours ears.

“It is the wind,” said Devizac. “It has risen into a storm, and its edge is as sharp as a rapier and as cold as death. How good it is and what warmth it is to the soul, M. le Prisonnier, to be within these solid walls drinking the red wine of France!”

“Listen, ’tis a louder blast than usual!” I exclaimed, as the fierce wind beat upon the house. “Then drink a deeper draught with me, M. Devizac, my captor!”

With one of the bottles that had not yet been touched I filled the glasses until the generous red liquor rose exactly even with the edge. Not another drop would either glass contain. Then:

“To your health, M. le Capitaine, my captor!”

“To your health, M. le Lieutenant, mon prisonnier!”

In a twinkling up flashed the glasses, and in a twinkling they were replaced empty on the table.

Remember we were both very young then, and the cold outside was as bitter as death.

“Who cares for war and winter when the red wine of France flows full and free?” exclaimed Devizac.

“Yes, who cares?” said a solemn voice behind. “Who should care more than thou who art an officer of France and thou who art an officer of England? Who should care more than the young and the foolish, who are prone to think too much of this world and too little of that world hereafter which hath no end? Blessed Virgin, save them, for they are young and given up to the folly and wickedness of the flesh! In this solemn hour I may quote the words of our Saviour, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

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