Harper's Round Table, August 13, 1895 Part 1

Harper's Round Table, August 13, 1895.

by Various.

THE STORY OF NOEL DUVAL.

BY FRANCIS STERNE PALMER.

The summer of 1814 was a troubled one for the people living in northern New York. English troops were concentrating at points just across the Canadian border, and there were rumors that they would soon invade the territory of the States. The farmers were being hastily drilled into militia companies--train-bands, as they were called; the women were anxious and frightened; the boys shared the general excitement, and were busy drilling.

Early one warm July evening four persons were sitting in the little lattice-covered portico of a cottage in the outskirts of one of the larger villages near the Canadian border. The most noticeable of the little group was Madam Marston, an old lady, tall and straight, one of the type that furnished the New England pioneers with wives as hardy and brave as themselves. On the bench on the other side of the portico sat her daughter; the Widow Duval, a slender, gentle woman, but with the same look of determination in her fine gray eyes. Close to her side was Noel Duval, a boy of about fifteen, whose dark skin and keen aquiline features came from his French Canadian father, but who had his mother's eyes. The sharpness of the boy's features was emphasized by the thinness of his face, which was pinched, as if by suffering. While a child he had met an accident that had brought on a long illness, and left one arm withered and almost helpless. His sister, little Ninette, nestled close to her stately grandmother.

"Mother," the boy was saying, "Abram Dodds made me very angry to-day. He said I was not an American, because my father was not, and because I have always lived in Canada."

"I wouldn't mind what the boys say. When they know you better I'm sure they'll stop trying to tease you." She laid her hand on his shoulder as if to check his impatience.

"Nay, daughter," interposed the older woman, her eyes flashing, "let him stand up for himself--if he can. Because you chose, against my wishes, to marry a Canadian is no reason why the boy should be sneered at. Was not his grandfather, Caleb Marston, as good a soldier as fought in the Revolution, and a captain, too? Let the boy stand up for himself, say I!"

His mother only stroked the boy's hair soothingly. "Bide your time, Noel," she whispered; "your chance will come, and in the mean time keep guard over that quick temper of yours. Remember you must be strong to take care of us all--Ninette, and your grandmother, and me--and a quick unruly temper ever means weakness."

"I'll not forget," said Noel. "But still, it angers me to be told I'm not an American. If my arm would only get stronger, I could be a soldier like grandfather, and prove that I'm an American. I am, really, am I not? for I was born in this country before my father took you back to his home in Canada."

Noel got up and walked off down the road toward the field where the boys held their drills. In spite of his weak arm he thought he could manage well enough in the drilling, and he was anxious to be asked to join a military company the boys had organized. This evening there had come together about twenty boys, all of whom lived on the neighboring farms.

Their drill-ground was a level piece of pasture-land, bordered on one side by the forest, which in those times stretched far away to the north, even to the banks of the St. Lawrence River.

When they saw Noel coming toward them the boys had just finished one of their evolutions and were resting, leaning on the wooden staffs which served them instead of real muskets. Jacobus Boonter, who was captain, had a real sword--one that his grandfather, Ensign Dirk Boonter, had carried in the war of the Revolution. The boys had much respect for the old sword, especially when Jacobus pointed out some spots on it that looked as if they might be blood-stains.

"Captain," said one of the boys, "there comes Noel Duval. You know, he came here with his mother from Canada only two months ago, and they live with old Widow Marston on her little farm. He only has one good arm, but to-day he wanted to fight Abram Dodds for saying he was not an American.

Shall we let him join the company? I know he wants to."

Broad-faced Jacobus shook his head gravely.

"No, I think we'd better not. He's so lately from Canada that he may be an English spy. You can't be too careful. They say he talks French.

Besides, he's only one good arm. No, I think we'd best not have him. I don't trust him, and a one-armed soldier wouldn't be good for anything, anyway."

"Well, I'd trust him," said the first speaker, "and I know him better than the rest of you do. It's true he's lived in Canada, and when he was there he learned lots of clever things about the woods, too; but he feels that this is his country, and he's just as good an American as any of us."

However, the opinions of Captain Jacobus prevailed, and when Noel came up he was treated in so cool a way by most of the boys that at first he felt very angry; but he remembered to check his temper. He remained and watched the drill, in spite of their evident intention to treat him as an outsider.

Soon it got so dark that the boys had to stop drilling. They were lying about on the ground near the edge of the woods, resting a little before they parted, when of a sudden thirty or forty men, each leading a pony, loomed out of the dusk. They were walking rapidly, and keeping close to the forest. The startled boys remained quiet, and the men did not see them till they were close upon them.

"h.e.l.lo! What's this?" exclaimed the one who seemed the leader. "Here, you little rascals, don't you stir! Not a word--not a move!"

The boys were frightened into complete submission, and lay huddled on the ground staring at the new-comers. These, with the exception of the leader, who wore the uniform of an English officer, were all dressed in deer-skin suits, with fur caps and moccasins. The boys saw that they had been captured by a band of the dreaded Canadian scouts--about whose Indianlike ferocity many tales were told--and most of the young warriors trembled with fright. Jacobus tried to say something, but his voice broke, and the attempt ended in an ignominious mixture of gulp and sob.

"You won't be hurt if you keep quiet," said the officer, trying not to smile when he saw Jacobus and his big sword. His voice grew stern as he went on: "Pierre and Antoine, you stay and guard these boys. If one moves you are to shoot him. Remember that order, boys; remember also that my scouts always obey. Be careful, Pierre, to let none of them escape to give the alarm. Join us when you hear firing. Come on, the rest of you."

In a moment the stealthy company of scouts, leading their ponies, that stepped carefully, as if they too understood the need of quiet, were gone. The boys would have thought it all an apparition if the two stalwart Canadians, Pierre and Antoine, had not been there to prove they had not been dreaming. The two scouts talked together for a short time in Canadian French; then, while the one called Pierre stood guard with his rifle, Antoine picketed their two ponies, and next began to picket the boys--that is, he tied together the wrists and ankles of each one, using some long thongs of deer-skin which he and Pierre carried wound round their waists. When all were securely tied the two scouts stretched themselves out on the gra.s.s, and, paying little further attention to their trembling prisoners, began talking--none of the boys save Noel could understand French.

"How long must we wait here with these wretched youngsters?" said Pierre.

"It will take an hour or more for them to encircle the village; and that must be done before the attack is made."

"And we must lose it all! It's a shame. Well, they ought to give us a better chance when--" Here he dropped his voice so low that Noel could hear no more.

While Noel's ears had been busy, his fingers had not been idle. With the deftness and patience born of his forest training in Canada he had worked at the knots that bound him, and had at last succeeded, with the help of the darkness, in untying them. He lay just at the forest's edge, and it required only one sudden spring to carry him into the underbrush.

The leap had been a quick one, but Pierre's sharp eyes had seen the boy's first movement; and as Noel crashed into the bushes, the scout's knife--which he wore at his belt, and which he could throw as an Indian throws the tomahawk--glanced through the air, severing a twig close to the boy's cheek. Noel made two or three long leaps, then crouched down, and, feeling along the earth, found a heavy stick, and flung it crashing into the bushes at one side.

Pierre, leaving Antoine to guard the others, had sprung after Noel; he carried his rifle, which had lain by his side, wrapped in his jacket to protect it from the dew. It was very dark under the thick evergreens; and as Pierre, misled by the sound of the stick, went a few yards to one side, Noel rose and moved away, his moccasins making as little noise as do the furry feet of a Canada lynx creeping up to a moose. But even a lynx sometimes stirs a twig that rustles a dead leaf, and now this happened to Noel. Pierre's ears caught a slight sound; instantly he made out the crouching figure, and, throwing his rifle to his shoulder, fired. Thanks to the darkness, the bullet missed, but whizzed so close to the boy's head that the concussion almost stunned him. Yet he felt like shouting for joy, for the scout, his muzzle-loading rifle empty and his knife gone, was practically unarmed.

"Have you got him?" cried Antoine, from the open.

"Not yet," shouted back Pierre. "But I'll have him, alive or dead. He sha'n't get away!"

Noel, knowing that there was now neither knife nor bullet to follow him, had leaped forward, running like a deer. The scout sprang after him not twenty yards behind. The little forest creatures that run about at night--weasels and sables and hares--scrambled out of their way, and crouched down, wondering at them as they came dashing by.

The two were not unequally matched; for while the scout had the advantage in strength, Noel was the more agile. His small size was also of great advantage, as any one who has tried to run through the woods will understand. The low-growing branches of trees did not trouble the boy as they did the tall Pierre, who several times measured his length upon the ground.

They went on for what seemed a long time to the man and boy plunging through the underbrush of the woods, but which was probably not more than half an hour. By that time Noel felt that his strength was fast going. He was breathing painfully, and had been forced to slacken his pace, when he came upon what at first seemed a thick growth of bushes; as he broke through he found that it was a brush fence which some farmer had built through the woods to enlarge his pasture. The boy, agile and light, had little trouble; but Pierre fared worse, and before he could struggle through the brush and the tops of fallen trees that composed the fence, Noel had doubled the distance between them.

As Noel hurried on as fast as he was able he was startled by some large animal, which he stumbled upon just as it was getting to its feet; it too was frightened, and ran on ahead. Noel saw that it was one of the farmer's heifers. Here was an opportunity to mislead his pursuer, and the boy dropped to the ground by the side of a log and lay perfectly quiet. Pierre, out of breath, and struggling to make up the ground he had lost, kept on after the heifer, thinking it was Noel. As he leaped over the log, he was so near the prostrate figure that his foot actually touched the boy's jacket.

As soon as the Canadian was out of hearing, Noel jumped up and started toward the clearing, which he knew was near by. There was no time to lose, for Pierre must soon find out his mistake and return. In a few minutes Noel reached the edge of the wood, and far off across the fields saw a black shaft in the starlight, the spire of the village church. It was fully three miles away; for he had been running from the village, rather than toward it. The attack, he knew, would be made within an hour.

There was a stretch of nearly a mile across the fields before a road could be reached. Noel, tired from his dash through the woods, started forward across the uneven pasture-land. In spite of his anxiety, he laughed to himself at the thought of Pierre's feelings when he should discover that he was chasing only a frightened cow.

As he hurried on as fast as his tired legs would carry him, it seemed to his strained senses that an unnatural and forbidding hush pervaded the warm night. Even the notes of whippoorwills that came from the bushes near the forest sounded less loud than usual, and seemed to foretell a calamity. The hares and other animals that come out in the darkness had hidden themselves.

Finally he came to the road that led on to the village, still two miles away. There was little danger of being overtaken by Pierre; but there was a chance of his being seen by the sentinels that the raiders might station on the roads leading to the village. He could not go faster than a slow trot now, and he was panting painfully. His moccasin-clad feet ploughed through the dust, striking against the stones in the rough road. He thought, a little bitterly, that the other boys were right if they believed that he was not really able-bodied; the accident that had hurt his arm had weakened him in every way. However, he plodded on steadily, resolved that determination should take the place, as far as possible, of bodily strength.

He had gone perhaps half the way when there was the sound of a horse's hoofs coming from the direction of the village. He crouched down in the shadow of some bushes, and waited. In a moment the horse and its rider came in sight, and by the dim light Noel recognized the village doctor, old Mr. Hedding, astride his white pony. Noel stepped into the road in front of the pony.

"It's only I, doctor; Noel Duval, grandson to the Widow Marston," he said, in a whisper. "Don't make any noise! Was everything quiet at the village when you left?"

"Quiet as usual, and that's quiet enough, for certain. But what's the matter, lad? Why are you stopping people in the high-road in this way?

And why are you trembling and panting so? That's not like a highwayman."

"They're going to attack the village--raiders from Canada! There's no time to explain! But you must let me have the pony! I'm all tired out--and I must get to the village!"

For a moment the doctor scrutinized the boy's face. Then he got down from the pony. "I was going to farmer Tonwell's, who's down with his rheumatism again, but he shall wait. I wouldn't do this at every boy's word, but you look as if you know what you're about, and I will take the chance."

Already Noel had sprung to the saddle and turned the pony back toward the village.

"Look out for my saddle-bags," said the doctor. "There's enough costly drugs in them to kill all the English in Canada. I'll follow on slowly, and 'twill go hard with you if you've been trifling with me."

But the boy was out of hearing. It seemed as if Providence had come to the aid of his weak body, and Noel, with renewed hope of reaching the village in time to give the alarm, urged on the st.u.r.dy white pony.