CHAPTER XVI.

“EDG.—Before you fight the battle ope this letter.”

—Lear

Major Heyward found Munro attended only by his daughters. Alice sat upon his

knee, parting the gray hairs on the forehead of the old man with her delicate

fingers; and whenever he affected to frown on her trifling, appeasing his

assumed anger by pressing her ruby lips fondly on his wrinkled brow. Cora was

seated nigh them, a calm and amused looker-on; regarding the wayward movements

of her more youthful sister with that species of maternal fondness which

characterized her love for Alice. Not only the dangers through which they had

passed, but those which still impended above them, appeared to be momentarily

forgotten, in the soothing indulgence of such a family meeting. It seemed as if

they had profited by the short truce, to devote an instant to the purest and

best affection; the daughters forgetting their fears, and the veteran his

cares, in the security of the moment. Of this scene, Duncan, who, in his

eagerness to report his arrival, had entered unannounced, stood many moments an

unobserved and a delighted spectator. But the quick and dancing eyes of Alice

soon caught a glimpse of his figure reflected from a glass, and she sprang

blushing from her father’s knee, exclaiming aloud:

“Major Heyward!”

“What of the lad?” demanded her father; “I have sent him to

crack a little with the Frenchman. Ha, sir, you are young, and you’re

nimble! Away with you, ye baggage; as if there were not troubles enough for a

soldier, without having his camp filled with such prattling hussies as

yourself!”

Alice laughingly followed her sister, who instantly led the way from an

apartment where she perceived their presence was no longer desirable. Munro,

instead of demanding the result of the young man’s mission, paced the

room for a few moments, with his hands behind his back, and his head inclined

toward the floor, like a man lost in thought. At length he raised his eyes,

glistening with a father’s fondness, and exclaimed:

“They are a pair of excellent girls, Heyward, and such as any one may

boast of.”

“You are not now to learn my opinion of your daughters, Colonel

Munro.”

“True, lad, true,” interrupted the impatient old man; “you

were about opening your mind more fully on that matter the day you got in, but

I did not think it becoming in an old soldier to be talking of nuptial

blessings and wedding jokes when the enemies of his king were likely to be

unbidden guests at the feast. But I was wrong, Duncan, boy, I was wrong there;

and I am now ready to hear what you have to say.”

“Notwithstanding the pleasure your assurance gives me, dear sir, I have

just now, a message from Montcalm—”

“Let the Frenchman and all his host go to the devil, sir!”

exclaimed the hasty veteran. “He is not yet master of William Henry, nor

shall he ever be, provided Webb proves himself the man he should. No, sir,

thank Heaven we are not yet in such a strait that it can be said Munro is too

much pressed to discharge the little domestic duties of his own family. Your

mother was the only child of my bosom friend, Duncan; and I’ll just give

you a hearing, though all the knights of St. Louis were in a body at the

sally-port, with the French saint at their head, crying to speak a word under

favor. A pretty degree of knighthood, sir, is that which can be bought with

sugar hogsheads! and then your twopenny marquisates. The thistle is the order

for dignity and antiquity; the veritable ‘nemo me impune lacessit’

of chivalry. Ye had ancestors in that degree, Duncan, and they were an ornament

to the nobles of Scotland.”

Heyward, who perceived that his superior took a malicious pleasure in

exhibiting his contempt for the message of the French general, was fain to

humor a spleen that he knew would be short-lived; he therefore, replied with as

much indifference as he could assume on such a subject:

“My request, as you know, sir, went so far as to presume to the honor of

being your son.”

“Ay, boy, you found words to make yourself very plainly comprehended.

But, let me ask ye, sir, have you been as intelligible to the girl?”

“On my honor, no,” exclaimed Duncan, warmly; “there would

have been an abuse of a confided trust, had I taken advantage of my situation

for such a purpose.”

“Your notions are those of a gentleman, Major Heyward, and well enough in

their place. But Cora Munro is a maiden too discreet, and of a mind too

elevated and improved, to need the guardianship even of a father.”

“Cora!”

“Ay—Cora! we are talking of your pretensions to Miss Munro, are we

not, sir?”

“I—I—I was not conscious of having mentioned her name,”

said Duncan, stammering.

“And to marry whom, then, did you wish my consent, Major Heyward?”

demanded the old soldier, erecting himself in the dignity of offended feeling.

“You have another, and not less lovely child.”

“Alice!” exclaimed the father, in an astonishment equal to that

with which Duncan had just repeated the name of her sister.

“Such was the direction of my wishes, sir.”

The young man awaited in silence the result of the extraordinary effect

produced by a communication, which, as it now appeared, was so unexpected. For

several minutes Munro paced the chamber with long and rapid strides, his rigid

features working convulsively, and every faculty seemingly absorbed in the

musings of his own mind. At length, he paused directly in front of Heyward, and

riveting his eyes upon those of the other, he said, with a lip that quivered

violently:

“Duncan Heyward, I have loved you for the sake of him whose blood is in

your veins; I have loved you for your own good qualities; and I have loved you,

because I thought you would contribute to the happiness of my child. But all

this love would turn to hatred, were I assured that what I so much apprehend is

true.”

“God forbid that any act or thought of mine should lead to such a

change!” exclaimed the young man, whose eye never quailed under the

penetrating look it encountered. Without adverting to the impossibility of the

other’s comprehending those feelings which were hid in his own bosom,

Munro suffered himself to be appeased by the unaltered countenance he met, and

with a voice sensibly softened, he continued:

“You would be my son, Duncan, and you’re ignorant of the history of

the man you wish to call your father. Sit ye down, young man, and I will open

to you the wounds of a seared heart, in as few words as may be suitable.”

By this time, the message of Montcalm was as much forgotten by him who bore it

as by the man for whose ears it was intended. Each drew a chair, and while the

veteran communed a few moments with his own thoughts, apparently in sadness,

the youth suppressed his impatience in a look and attitude of respectful

attention. At length, the former spoke:

“You’ll know, already, Major Heyward, that my family was both

ancient and honorable,” commenced the Scotsman; “though it might

not altogether be endowed with that amount of wealth that should correspond

with its degree. I was, maybe, such an one as yourself when I plighted my faith

to Alice Graham, the only child of a neighboring laird of some estate. But the

connection was disagreeable to her father, on more accounts than my poverty. I

did, therefore, what an honest man should—restored the maiden her troth,

and departed the country in the service of my king. I had seen many regions,

and had shed much blood in different lands, before duty called me to the

islands of the West Indies. There it was my lot to form a connection with one

who in time became my wife, and the mother of Cora. She was the daughter of a

gentleman of those isles, by a lady whose misfortune it was, if you

will,” said the old man, proudly, “to be descended, remotely, from

that unfortunate class who are so basely enslaved to administer to the wants of

a luxurious people. Ay, sir, that is a curse, entailed on Scotland by her

unnatural union with a foreign and trading people. But could I find a man among

them who would dare to reflect on my child, he should feel the weight of a

father’s anger! Ha! Major Heyward, you are yourself born at the south,

where these unfortunate beings are considered of a race inferior to your

own.”

“’Tis most unfortunately true, sir,” said Duncan, unable any

longer to prevent his eyes from sinking to the floor in embarrassment.

“And you cast it on my child as a reproach! You scorn to mingle the blood

of the Heywards with one so degraded—lovely and virtuous though she

be?” fiercely demanded the jealous parent.

“Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy of my reason!”

returned Duncan, at the same time conscious of such a feeling, and that as

deeply rooted as if it had been ingrafted in his nature. “The sweetness,

the beauty, the witchery of your younger daughter, Colonel Munro, might explain

my motives without imputing to me this injustice.”

“Ye are right, sir,” returned the old man, again changing his tones

to those of gentleness, or rather softness; “the girl is the image of

what her mother was at her years, and before she had become acquainted with

grief. When death deprived me of my wife I returned to Scotland, enriched by

the marriage; and, would you think it, Duncan! the suffering angel had remained

in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long years, and that for the sake of

a man who could forget her! She did more, sir; she overlooked my want of faith,

and, all difficulties being now removed, she took me for her husband.”

“And became the mother of Alice?” exclaimed Duncan, with an

eagerness that might have proved dangerous at a moment when the thoughts of

Munro were less occupied that at present.

“She did, indeed,” said the old man, “and dearly did she pay

for the blessing she bestowed. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill

becomes one whose foot rests on the grave to mourn a lot so blessed. I had her

but a single year, though; a short term of happiness for one who had seen her

youth fade in hopeless pining.”

There was something so commanding in the distress of the old man, that Heyward

did not dare to venture a syllable of consolation. Munro sat utterly

unconscious of the other’s presence, his features exposed and working

with the anguish of his regrets, while heavy tears fell from his eyes, and

rolled unheeded from his cheeks to the floor. At length he moved, and as if

suddenly recovering his recollection; when he arose, and taking a single turn

across the room, he approached his companion with an air of military grandeur,

and demanded:

“Have you not, Major Heyward, some communication that I should hear from

the marquis de Montcalm?”

Duncan started in his turn, and immediately commenced in an embarrassed voice,

the half-forgotten message. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the evasive though

polite manner with which the French general had eluded every attempt of Heyward

to worm from him the purport of the communication he had proposed making, or on

the decided, though still polished message, by which he now gave his enemy to

understand, that, unless he chose to receive it in person, he should not

receive it at all. As Munro listened to the detail of Duncan, the excited

feelings of the father gradually gave way before the obligations of his

station, and when the other was done, he saw before him nothing but the

veteran, swelling with the wounded feelings of a soldier.

“You have said enough, Major Heyward,” exclaimed the angry old man;

“enough to make a volume of commentary on French civility. Here has this

gentleman invited me to a conference, and when I send him a capable substitute,

for ye’re all that, Duncan, though your years are but few, he answers me

with a riddle.”

“He may have thought less favorably of the substitute, my dear sir; and

you will remember that the invitation, which he now repeats, was to the

commandant of the works, and not to his second.”

“Well, sir, is not a substitute clothed with all the power and dignity of

him who grants the commission? He wishes to confer with Munro! Faith, sir, I

have much inclination to indulge the man, if it should only be to let him

behold the firm countenance we maintain in spite of his numbers and his

summons. There might be not bad policy in such a stroke, young man.”

Duncan, who believed it of the last importance that they should speedily come

to the contents of the letter borne by the scout, gladly encouraged this idea.

“Without doubt, he could gather no confidence by witnessing our

indifference,” he said.

“You never said truer word. I could wish, sir, that he would visit the

works in open day, and in the form of a storming party; that is the least

failing method of proving the countenance of an enemy, and would be far

preferable to the battering system he has chosen. The beauty and manliness of

warfare has been much deformed, Major Heyward, by the arts of your Monsieur

Vauban. Our ancestors were far above such scientific cowardice!”

“It may be very true, sir; but we are now obliged to repel art by art.

What is your pleasure in the matter of the interview?”

“I will meet the Frenchman, and that without fear or delay; promptly,

sir, as becomes a servant of my royal master. Go, Major Heyward, and give them

a flourish of the music; and send out a messenger to let them know who is

coming. We will follow with a small guard, for such respect is due to one who

holds the honor of his king in keeping; and hark’ee, Duncan,” he

added, in a half whisper, though they were alone, “it may be prudent to

have some aid at hand, in case there should be treachery at the bottom of it

all.”

The young man availed himself of this order to quit the apartment; and, as the

day was fast coming to a close, he hastened without delay, to make the

necessary arrangements. A very few minutes only were necessary to parade a few

files, and to dispatch an orderly with a flag to announce the approach of the

commandant of the fort. When Duncan had done both these, he led the guard to

the sally-port, near which he found his superior ready, waiting his appearance.

As soon as the usual ceremonials of a military departure were observed, the

veteran and his more youthful companion left the fortress, attended by the

escort.

They had proceeded only a hundred yards from the works, when the little array

which attended the French general to the conference was seen issuing from the

hollow way which formed the bed of a brook that ran between the batteries of

the besiegers and the fort. From the moment that Munro left his own works to

appear in front of his enemy’s, his air had been grand, and his step and

countenance highly military. The instant he caught a glimpse of the white plume

that waved in the hat of Montcalm, his eye lighted, and age no longer appeared

to possess any influence over his vast and still muscular person.

“Speak to the boys to be watchful, sir,” he said, in an undertone,

to Duncan; “and to look well to their flints and steel, for one is never

safe with a servant of these Louis’s; at the same time, we shall show

them the front of men in deep security. Ye’ll understand me, Major

Heyward!”

[Illustration]

He was interrupted by the clamor of a drum from the approaching Frenchmen,

which was immediately answered, when each party pushed an orderly in advance,

bearing a white flag, and the wary Scotsman halted with his guard close at his

back. As soon as this slight salutation had passed, Montcalm moved toward them

with a quick but graceful step, baring his head to the veteran, and dropping

his spotless plume nearly to the earth in courtesy. If the air of Munro was

more commanding and manly, it wanted both the ease and insinuating polish of

that of the Frenchman. Neither spoke for a few moments, each regarding the

other with curious and interested eyes. Then, as became his superior rank and

the nature of the interview, Montcalm broke the silence. After uttering the

usual words of greeting, he turned to Duncan, and continued, with a smile of

recognition, speaking always in French:

“I am rejoiced, monsieur, that you have given us the pleasure of your

company on this occasion. There will be no necessity to employ an ordinary

interpreter; for, in your hands, I feel the same security as if I spoke your

language myself.”

Duncan acknowledged the compliment, when Montcalm, turning to his guard, which

in imitation of that of their enemies, pressed close upon him, continued:

“En arriere, mes enfants—il fait chaud—-retirez-vous un

peu.”

Before Major Heyward would imitate this proof of confidence, he glanced his

eyes around the plain, and beheld with uneasiness the numerous dusky groups of

savages, who looked out from the margin of the surrounding woods, curious

spectators of the interview.

“Monsieur de Montcalm will readily acknowledge the difference in our

situation,” he said, with some embarrassment, pointing at the same time

toward those dangerous foes, who were to be seen in almost every direction.

“Were we to dismiss our guard, we should stand here at the mercy of our

enemies.”

“Monsieur, you have the plighted faith of ‘un gentilhomme

Français’, for your safety,” returned Montcalm, laying his hand

impressively on his heart; “it should suffice.”

“It shall. Fall back,” Duncan added to the officer who led the

escort; “fall back, sir, beyond hearing, and wait for orders.”

Munro witnessed this movement with manifest uneasiness; nor did he fail to

demand an instant explanation.

“Is it not our interest, sir, to betray no distrust?” retorted

Duncan. “Monsieur de Montcalm pledges his word for our safety, and I have

ordered the men to withdraw a little, in order to prove how much we depend on

his assurance.”

“It may be all right, sir, but I have no overweening reliance on the

faith of these marquesses, or marquis, as they call themselves. Their patents

of nobility are too common to be certain that they bear the seal of true

honor.”

“You forget, dear sir, that we confer with an officer, distinguished

alike in Europe and America for his deeds. From a soldier of his reputation we

can have nothing to apprehend.”

The old man made a gesture of resignation, though his rigid features still

betrayed his obstinate adherence to a distrust, which he derived from a sort of

hereditary contempt of his enemy, rather than from any present signs which

might warrant so uncharitable a feeling. Montcalm waited patiently until this

little dialogue in demi-voice was ended, when he drew nigher, and opened the

subject of their conference.

“I have solicited this interview from your superior, monsieur,” he

said, “because I believe he will allow himself to be persuaded that he

has already done everything which is necessary for the honor of his prince, and

will now listen to the admonitions of humanity. I will forever bear testimony

that his resistance has been gallant, and was continued as long as there was

hope.”

When this opening was translated to Munro, he answered with dignity, but with

sufficient courtesy:

“However I may prize such testimony from Monsieur Montcalm, it will be

more valuable when it shall be better merited.”

The French general smiled, as Duncan gave him the purport of this reply, and

observed:

“What is now so freely accorded to approved courage, may be refused to

useless obstinacy. Monsieur would wish to see my camp, and witness for himself

our numbers, and the impossibility of his resisting them with success?”

“I know that the king of France is well served,” returned the

unmoved Scotsman, as soon as Duncan ended his translation; “but my own

royal master has as many and as faithful troops.”

“Though not at hand, fortunately for us,” said Montcalm, without

waiting, in his ardor, for the interpreter. “There is a destiny in war,

to which a brave man knows how to submit with the same courage that he faces

his foes.”

“Had I been conscious that Monsieur Montcalm was master of the English, I

should have spared myself the trouble of so awkward a translation,” said

the vexed Duncan, dryly; remembering instantly his recent by-play with Munro.

“Your pardon, monsieur,” rejoined the Frenchman, suffering a slight

color to appear on his dark cheek. “There is a vast difference between

understanding and speaking a foreign tongue; you will, therefore, please to

assist me still.” Then, after a short pause, he added: “These hills

afford us every opportunity of reconnoitering your works, messieurs, and I am

possibly as well acquainted with their weak condition as you can be

yourselves.”

“Ask the French general if his glasses can reach to the Hudson,”

said Munro, proudly; “and if he knows when and where to expect the army

of Webb.”

“Let General Webb be his own interpreter,” returned the politic

Montcalm, suddenly extending an open letter toward Munro as he spoke;

“you will there learn, monsieur, that his movements are not likely to

prove embarrassing to my army.”

The veteran seized the offered paper, without waiting for Duncan to translate

the speech, and with an eagerness that betrayed how important he deemed its

contents. As his eye passed hastily over the words, his countenance changed

from its look of military pride to one of deep chagrin; his lip began to

quiver; and suffering the paper to fall from his hand, his head dropped upon

his chest, like that of a man whose hopes were withered at a single blow.

Duncan caught the letter from the ground, and without apology for the liberty

he took, he read at a glance its cruel purport. Their common superior, so far

from encouraging them to resist, advised a speedy surrender, urging in the

plainest language, as a reason, the utter impossibility of his sending a single

man to their rescue.

“Here is no deception!” exclaimed Duncan, examining the billet both

inside and out; “this is the signature of Webb, and must be the captured

letter.”

“The man has betrayed me!” Munro at length bitterly exclaimed;

“he has brought dishonor to the door of one where disgrace was never

before known to dwell, and shame has he heaped heavily on my gray hairs.”

“Say not so,” cried Duncan; “we are yet masters of the fort,

and of our honor. Let us, then, sell our lives at such a rate as shall make our

enemies believe the purchase too dear.”

“Boy, I thank thee,” exclaimed the old man, rousing himself from

his stupor; “you have, for once, reminded Munro of his duty. We will go

back, and dig our graves behind those ramparts.”

“Messieurs,” said Montcalm, advancing toward them a step, in

generous interest, “you little know Louis de St. Veran if you believe him

capable of profiting by this letter to humble brave men, or to build up a

dishonest reputation for himself. Listen to my terms before you leave

me.”

“What says the Frenchman?” demanded the veteran, sternly;

“does he make a merit of having captured a scout, with a note from

headquarters? Sir, he had better raise this siege, to go and sit down before

Edward if he wishes to frighten his enemy with words.”

Duncan explained the other’s meaning.

“Monsieur de Montcalm, we will hear you,” the veteran added, more

calmly, as Duncan ended.

“To retain the fort is now impossible,” said his liberal enemy;

“it is necessary to the interests of my master that it should be

destroyed; but as for yourselves and your brave comrades, there is no privilege

dear to a soldier that shall be denied.”

“Our colors?” demanded Heyward.

“Carry them to England, and show them to your king.”

“Our arms?”

“Keep them; none can use them better.”

“Our march; the surrender of the place?”

“Shall all be done in a way most honorable to yourselves.”

Duncan now turned to explain these proposals to his commander, who heard him

with amazement, and a sensibility that was deeply touched by so unusual and

unexpected generosity.

“Go you, Duncan,” he said; “go with this marquess, as,

indeed, marquess he should be; go to his marquee and arrange it all. I have

lived to see two things in my old age that never did I expect to behold. An

Englishman afraid to support a friend, and a Frenchman too honest to profit by

his advantage.”

So saying, the veteran again dropped his head to his chest, and returned slowly

toward the fort, exhibiting, by the dejection of his air, to the anxious

garrison, a harbinger of evil tidings.

From the shock of this unexpected blow the haughty feelings of Munro never

recovered; but from that moment there commenced a change in his determined

character, which accompanied him to a speedy grave. Duncan remained to settle

the terms of the capitulation. He was seen to re-enter the works during the

first watches of the night, and immediately after a private conference with the

commandant, to leave them again. It was then openly announced that hostilities

must cease—Munro having signed a treaty by which the place was to be

yielded to the enemy, with the morning; the garrison to retain their arms, the

colors and their baggage, and, consequently, according to military opinion,

their honor.