The Sun of Quebec: A Story of a Great Crisis, Joseph A. Altsheler [good novels to read TXT] 📗

[B] The story of Zeb Crane and his remarkable achievements is contained in the author's novel, "A Soldier of Manhattan."

Despite his courage and the new resolution that he had acquired during his long months on the island, Robert's heart often sank. They seemed to make no progress with the siege of Quebec. Just so far had they gone and they could go no farther. The fortress of France in the New World appeared impregnable. There it was, cut clear against the sky, the light shining on its stone buildings, proud and defiant, saying with every new day to those who attacked it that it could not be taken, while Montcalm, De Levis, Bougainville, St. Luc and the others showed all their old skill in defense. They heard too that Bourlamaque after his retreat from Ticonderoga and Crown Point was sitting securely within his lines and intrenchments at Isle-aux-Noix and that the cautious Amherst would delay longer and yet longer.

It was now certain that no help could be expected from Amherst and his strong army that year. The most that he would do would be to keep Bourlamaque and his men from coming to the relief of Quebec. So far as the capital of New France was concerned the issue must be fought out by the forces now gathered there for the defense and the offense, the French and the Indians against the English and the Americans.

Robert realized more keenly every day that the time[Pg 285] was short and becoming shorter. Hot summer days were passing, nights came on crisp and cool, the foliage along the king of rivers and its tributaries began to glow with the intense colors of decay, there was more than a touch of autumn in the air. They must be up and doing before the fierce winter came down on Quebec. Military operations would be impossible then.

In this depressing time Robert drew much courage from Charteris, who had been a prisoner a long time in Quebec, and who understood even more thoroughly than young Lennox the hollowness of the French power in North America.

"It is upheld by a few brave and skillful men and a small but heroic army," he said. "In effect, New France has been deserted by the Bourbon monarchy. If it were not for the extraordinary situation of Quebec, adapted so splendidly to purposes of defense, we could crush the Marquis de Montcalm in a short time. The French regulars are as good as any troops in the world and they will fight to the last, but the Canadian militia is not disciplined well, and is likely to break under a fierce attack. You know, Lennox, what militiamen always are, no matter to what nation they belong. They may fight and die like heroes at one time, and, at another time, they may run away at the first fire, struck with panic. What we want is a fair chance at the French army in the open. General Wolfe himself, though cursed by much illness, never loses hope. I've had occasion to talk with him more than once owing to my knowledge of Quebec and the surrounding country, and there's a spirit for you, Lennox. It's in an ugly body but no man was ever animated by a finer temper and courage."

Robert and Charteris formed a great friendship, a true friendship that lasted all their long lives. But then[Pg 286] Robert had a singular faculty for making friends. Charteris interested him vastly. He had a proud, reserved and somewhat haughty nature. Many people thought him exclusive, but Robert soon learned that his fastidiousness was due to a certain shy quality, and a natural taste for the best in everything. Under his apparent coldness lay a brave and staunch nature and an absolute integrity.

Robert's interest in Charteris was heightened by the delicate cloud of romance that floated about him, a cloud that rose from the hints thrown forth now and then by Zebedee Crane. The young French lady in Quebec who loved him was as beautiful as the dawn and she had the spirit of a queen. Charteris lived in the hope that they might take Quebec and her with it. But Robert was far too fine of feeling ever to allude to such an affair of the heart to Charteris, or in truth to any one else.

It was a period of waiting and yet it was a period of activity. The partisans were incessant in their ways. Robert heard that his old friend, Langlade, was leading a numerous band against the English, and the evidences of Tandakora's murderous ferocity multiplied. Nor were the outlying French themselves safe from him. News arrived that he intended an attack upon a château called Chatillard farther up the river but within the English lines. A band of the New England rangers, led by Willet, was sent to drive him off, and to destroy the Ojibway pest, if possible. Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went with him.

They arrived at the château just before twilight. It was a solid stone building overlooking the St. Lawrence, and the lands about it had a narrow frontage on the river, but it ran back miles after the old French custom in making such grants, in order that every estate might[Pg 287] have a river landing. Willet's troops numbered about forty men, and, respecting the aged M. de Chatillard, who was quite ill and in bed, they did not for the present go into the house, eating their own supper on the long, narrow lawn, which was thick with dwarfed and clipped pines and other shrubbery.

But they lighted no fires, and they kept very quiet, since they wished for Tandakora to walk into an ambush. The information, most of which had been obtained by Zeb Crane, was to the effect that Tandakora believed a guard of English soldiers was in the house. After his custom he would swoop down upon them, slaughter them, and then be up and away. It was a trick in which the savage heart of the Ojibway delighted, and he had achieved it more than once.

The August night came down thick and dark. A few lights shone in the Château de Chatillard, but Willet and his rangers stood in black gloom. Almost at their feet the great St. Lawrence flowed in its mighty channel, a dim blue under the dusky sky. Nothing was visible there save the slow stream, majestic, an incalculable weight of water. Nothing appeared upon its surface, and the far shore was lost in the night. It seemed to Robert, despite the stone walls of the château by their side, that they were back in the wilderness. It was a northern wilderness too. The light wind off the river made him shiver.

The front door of the house opened and a figure outlined against the light appeared. It was an old man in a black robe, tall, thin and ascetic, and Robert seeing him so clearly in the light of a lamp that he held in his hand recognized him at once. It was Father Philibert Drouillard, the same whom he had defeated in the test of ora[Pg 288]tory in the vale of Onondaga before the wise sachems, when so much depended on victory.

"Father Drouillard!" he exclaimed impulsively, stepping forward out of the shadows.

"Who is it who speaks?" asked the priest, holding the lamp a little higher.

"Father Drouillard, don't you know me?" exclaimed Robert, advancing within the circle of light.

"Ah, it is young Lennox!" said the priest. "What a meeting! And under what circumstances!"

"And there are others here whom you know," said Robert. "Look, this is David Willet who commands us, and here also is Tayoga, whom you remember in the vale of Onondaga."

Father Drouillard saluted them gravely.

"You are the enemies of my country," he said, "but I will not deny that I am glad to see you here. I understand that the savage, Tandakora, means to attack this house to-night, thinking that it holds a British garrison. Well, it seems that he will not be far wrong in his thought."

A ghost of a smile flickered over the priest's pale face.

"A garrison but not the garrison that he expects to destroy," said Willet. "Tandakora fights nominally under the flag of France, but as you know, Father, he fights chiefly to gratify his own cruel desires."

"I know it too well. Come inside. M. de Chatillard wishes to see you."

Willet, Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went in, and were shown into the bedroom where the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard, past ninety years of age, lay upon his last bed. He was a large, handsome old man, fair like so many of the Northern French, and his dying eyes were full of fire. Two women of middle[Pg 289] years, his granddaughters, knelt weeping by each side of his bed, and two servants, tears on their faces, stood at the foot. Willet and his comrades halted respectfully at the door.

"Step closer," said the old man, "that I may see you well."

The four entered and stood within the light shed by two tall candles. The old man gazed at them a long time in silence, but finally he said:

"And so the English have come at last."

"We're not English,