True Stories From History and Biography (14 page)

Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood of Boston school-boys, who
came running, with laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of oddly
dressed foreigners. At first they danced and capered around them, full of
merriment and mischief. But the despair of the Acadians soon had its
effect upon these thoughtless lads, and melted them into tearful sympathy.

At a little distance from the throng, might be seen the wealthy and
pompous merchants, whose warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult
to touch these rich men's hearts; for they had all the comforts of the
world at their command; and when they walked abroad, their feelings were
seldom moved, except by the roughness of the pavement, irritating their
gouty toes. Leaning upon their gold-headed canes, they watched the scene
with an aspect of composure. But, let us hope, they distributed some of
their superfluous coin among these hapless exiles, to purchase food and a
night's lodging.

After standing a long time at the end of the wharf, gazing seaward, as if
to catch a glimpse of their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray into
the town.

They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups, here a hundred, there a
score, there ten, there three or four, who possessed some bond of unity
among themselves. Here and there was one, who, utterly desolate, stole
away by himself, seeking no companionship.

Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering about the streets, telling
the town's-people, in outlandish, unintelligible words, that no earthly
affliction ever equalled what had befallen them. Man's brotherhood with
man was sufficient to make the New Englanders understand this language.
The strangers wanted food. Some of them sought hospitality at the doors of
the stately mansions, which then stood in the vicinity of Hanover Street
and the North Square. Others were applicants at the humble wooden
tenements, where dwelt the petty shop-keepers and mechanics. Pray Heaven,
that no family in Boston turned one of these poor exiles from their door!
It would be a reproach upon New England—a crime worthy of heavy
retribution—if the aged women and children, or even the strong men, were
allowed to feel the pinch of hunger.

Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless wanderings through the
town, found themselves near a large brick edifice, which was fenced in
from the street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic figures. They
saw a flight of red freestone steps, ascending to a portal, above which
was a balcony and balustrade. Misery and desolation give men the right of
free passage everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they mounted the
flight of steps, and passed into the Province House. Making their way into
one of the apartments, they beheld a richly clad gentleman, seated in a
stately chair, with gilding upon the carved work of its back, and a gilded
lion's head at the summit. This was Governor Shirley, meditating upon
matters of war and state, in Grandfather's chair!

If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting what a ruin of
peaceful and humble hopes had been wrought by the cold policy of the
statesman, and the iron hand of the warrior, might have drawn a deep moral
from it. It should have taught him that the poor man's hearth is sacred,
and that armies and nations have no right to violate it. It should have
made him feel, that England's triumph, and increased dominion, could not
compensate to mankind, nor atone to Heaven, for the ashes of a single
Acadian cottage. But it is not thus that statesmen and warriors moralize.

"Grandfather," cried Laurence, with emotion trembling in his voice, "did
iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this before?"

"You have rend in history, Laurence, of whole regions wantonly laid
waste," said Grandfather. "In the removal of the Acadians, the troops were
guilty of no cruelty or outrage, except what was inseparable from the
measure."

Little Alice, whose eyes had, all along, been brimming full of tears, now
burst forth a-sobbing; for Grandfather had touched her sympathies more
than he intended.

"To think of a whole people, homeless in the world!" said Clara, with
moistened eyes. "There never was any thing so sad!"

"It was their own fault," cried Charley, energetically. "Why did not they
fight for the country where they were born? Then, if the worst had
happened to them they could only have been killed and buried there. They
would not have been exiles then!"

"Certainly, their lot was as hard as death," said Grandfather. "All that
could be done for them, in the English provinces, was to send them to the
alms-houses, or bind them out to task-masters. And this was the fate of
persons, who had possessed a comfortable property in their native country.
Some of them found means to embark for France; but though it was the land
of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to them. Those, who
remained behind, always cherished a belief, that the king of France would
never make peace with England, till his poor Acadians were restored their
country and their homes."

"And did he?" inquired Clara.

"Alas, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "it is improbable that the
slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis the
Fifteenth. The exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never saw
Acadia again. Their descendants remain among us, to this day. They have
forgotten the language of their ancestors, and probably retain no
tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American poet,
I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song."

Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most famous of American
poets has drawn sweet tears from all of us, by his beautiful poem of
Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fire-side,
by a story that made the children feel the blessing of a secure and
peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the Old French
War till the next evening.

In the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the red beams of the fire were
dancing upon the wall, the children besought Grandfather to tell them what
had next happened to the old chair.

"Our chair," said Grandfather, "stood all this time in the Province House.
But, Governor Shirley had seldom an opportunity to repose within its arms.
He was loading his troops through the forest, or sailing in a flat-boat on
Lake Ontario, or sleeping in his tent, while the awful cataract of Niagara
sent its roar through his dreams. At one period, in the early part of the
war, Shirley had the chief command of all the king's forces in America."

"Did his young wife go with him to the war?" asked Clara.

"I rather imagine," replied Grandfather, "that she remained in Boston.
This lady, I suppose, had our chair all to herself, and used to sit in it,
during those brief intervals when a young French woman can be quiet enough
to sit in a chair. The people of Massachusetts were never fond of Governor
Shirley's young French wife. They had a suspicion that she betrayed the
military plans of the English to the generals of the French armies."

"And was it true?" inquired Clara.

"Probably not," said Grandfather. "But the mere suspicion did Shirley a
great deal of harm. Partly, perhaps, for this reason, but much more on
account of his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived of his command,
in 1756, and recalled to England. He never afterwards made any figure in
public life."

As Grandfather's chair had no locomotive properties, and did not even run
on castors, it cannot be supposed to have marched in person to the Old
French War. But Grandfather delayed its momentous history, while he
touched briefly upon some of the bloody battles, sieges, and onslaughts,
the tidings of which kept continually coming to the ears of the old
inhabitants of Boston. The woods of the north were populous with fighting
men. All the Indian tribes uplifted their tomahawks, and took part either
with the French or English. The rattle of musketry and roar of cannon
disturbed the ancient quiet of the forest, and actually drove the bears
and other wild beasts to the more cultivated portion of the country in the
vicinity of the sea-ports. The children felt as if they were transported
back to those forgotten times, and that the couriers from the army, with
the news of a battle lost or won, might even now be heard galloping
through the streets. Grandfather told them about the battle of Lake
George, in 1755, when the gallant Colonel Williams, a Massachusetts
officer, was slain, with many of his countrymen. But General Johnson and
General Lyman, with their army, drove back the enemy, and mortally wounded
the French leader, who was called the Baron Dieskau. A gold watch,
pilfered from the poor Baron, is still in existence, and still marks each
moment of time, without complaining of weariness, although its hands have
been in motion ever since the hour of battle.

In the first years of the war, there were many disasters on the English
side. Among these was the loss of Fort Oswego, in 1756, and of Fort
William Henry, in the following year. But the greatest misfortune that
befell the English, during the whole war, was the repulse of General
Abercrombie, with his army, from the ramparts of Ticonderoga, in 1758. He
attempted to storm the walls; but a terrible conflict ensued, in which
more than two thousand Englishmen and New Englanders were killed or
wounded. The slain soldiers now lie buried around that ancient fortress.
When the plough passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a
mouldering bone.

Up to this period, none of the English generals had shown any military
talent. Shirley, the Earl of Loudon, and General Abercrombie, had each
held the chief command, at different times; but not one of them had won a
single important triumph for the British arms. This ill success was not
owing to the want of means; for, in 1758, General Abercrombie had fifty
thousand soldiers under his command. But the French general, the famous
Marquis de Montcalm, possessed a great genius for war, and had something
within him, that taught him how battles were to be won.

At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed commander-in-chief
of all the British forces in America. He was a man of ability, and a
skilful soldier. A plan was now formed for accomplishing that object,
which had so long been the darling wish of the New Englanders, and which
their fathers had so many times attempted. This was the conquest of
Canada.

Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from different quarters. One
of the three, commanded by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake
Ontario, and proceed to Montreal. The second, at the head of which was Sir
Jeffrey Amherst himself, was destined to reach the River St. Lawrence, by
the way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river to meet the third
army. This last, led by General Wolfe, was to enter the St. Lawrence from
the sea, and ascend the river to Quebec. It is to Wolfe and his army that
England owes one of the most splendid triumphs, ever written in her
history.

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and told how Wolfe led his
soldiers up a rugged and lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of the
river to the plain on which the city stood. This bold adventure was
achieved in the darkness of night. At day-break, tidings were carried to
the Marquis de Montcalm, that the English army was waiting to give him
battle on the plains of Abraham. This brave French general ordered his
drums to strike up, and immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.

He marched to his own death. The battle was the most fierce and terrible,
that had ever been fought in America. General Wolfe was at the head of his
soldiers, and while encouraging them onward, received a mortal wound. He
reclined against a stone, in the agonies of death; but it seemed as if his
spirit could not pass away, while the fight yet raged so doubtfully.
Suddenly, a shout came pealing across the battle-field—"They flee! they
flee!" and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head. "Who flee?" he
inquired. "The French," replied an officer. "Then I die satisfied!" said
Wolfe, and expired in the arms of victory.

"If ever a warrior's death were glorious, Wolfe's was so!" said
Grandfather; and his eye kindled, though he was a man of peaceful
thoughts, and gentle spirit. "His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil
which he had added to the dominion of Britain! His dying breath was
mingled with his army's shout of victory!"

"Oh, it was a good death to die!" cried Charley, with glistening eyes.
"Was it not a good death, Laurence?"

Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned within him, as the picture of
Wolfe, dying on the blood-stained field of victory, arose to his
imagination; and yet, he had a deep inward consciousness, that, after all,
there was a truer glory than could thus be won.

"There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe's victory," resumed
Grandfather; "but we may consider the Old French War as having terminated
with this great event. The treaty of peace, however, was not signed until
1763. The terms of the treaty were very disadvantageous to the French; for
all Canada, and all Acadia, and the island of Cape Breton, in short, all
the territories that France and England had been fighting about, for
nearly a hundred years—were surrendered to the English."

"So, now, at last," said Laurence, "New England had gained her wish.
Canada was taken!"

"And now there was nobody to fight with, but the Indians," said Charley.

Grandfather mentioned two other important events. The first was the great
fire of Boston, in 1700, when the glare from nearly three hundred
buildings, all in flames at once, shone through the windows of the
Province House, and threw a fierce lustre upon the gilded foliage and
lion's head of our old chair. The second event was the proclamation, in
the same year, of George the Third as king of Great Britain. The blast of
the trumpet sounded from the balcony of the Town House, and awoke the
echoes far and wide, as if to challenge all mankind to dispute King
George's title.