The Sun of Quebec: A Story of a Great Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (books for men to read .txt) 📕

on shoulder he went off for a long and brisk walk, and his steps unconsciously took him, as they often did, toward the high hill in the center of the island, a crest that he used as a lookout. On his way he passed his friend, the old bull, grazing in a meadow, and, watching his herd, like the faithful guardian he was. Robert called to him cheerfully. The big fellow looked up, shook his horns, not in hostile fashion but in the manner of comrade saluting comrade, and then went back, with a whole and confident heart, to his task of nipping the grass. Robert was pleased. It was certain that the bull no longer regarded him with either fear or apprehension, and he wanted to be liked.

It was nearly noon when he reached his summit, and as he was warm from exercise he sat down on a rock, staying there a long time and scouring the horizon now and then through the glasses. The sea was a circle of blazing blue, and the light wind sang from the southwest.

He had brought food with him and in the middle of the day he ate it. With nothing in particular to do he thought he would spend the afternoon there, and, making himself comfortable, he waited, still taking occasional glances through the glasses. While he sat, idling more than anything else, his mind became occupied with Tayoga's theory of spirits in the air—less a theory however than the religious belief of the Indians.

He wanted to believe that Tayoga was right, and his[Pg 160] imagination was so vivid and intense that what he wished to believe he usually ended by believing. He shut his eyes and tested his power of evocation. He knew that he could create feeling in any part of his body merely by concentrating his mind upon that particular part of it and by continuing to think of it. Physical sensation even came from will. So he would imagine that he heard spirits in the air all about him, not anything weird or hostile, but just kindly people of the clouds and winds, such as those created by the old Greeks.

Fancying that he heard whispers about him and resolved to hear them, he heard them. If a powerful imagination wanted to create whispers it could create them. The spirits of the air, Tayoga's spirits, the spirits of old Hellas, were singing in either ear, and the song, like that of the sea, like the flavor breathed out by his Christmas celebration, was full of courage, alive with hope.

He had kept his eyes closed a full half hour, because, with sight shut off, the other senses became much more acute for the time. The power that had been in the eyes was poured into their allies. Imagination, in particular, leaped into a sudden luxuriant growth. It was true, of course it was quite true, that those friendly spirits of the air were singing all about him. They were singing in unison a gay and brilliant song, very pleasant to hear, until he was startled by a new note that came into it, a note not in harmony with the others, the voice of Cassandra herself. He listened and he was sure. Beyond a doubt it was a note of warning.

Robert opened his eyes and everything went away. There was the pleasant, green island, and there was the deep blue sea all about it. He laughed to himself. He was letting imagination go too far. One could make believe too much. He sat idly a few minutes and then,[Pg 161] putting the glasses to his eyes, took another survey of the far horizon where blue sky and blue water met. He moved the focus slowly around the circle, and when he came to a point in the east he started violently, then sprang to his feet, every pulse leaping.

He had seen a tiny black dot upon the water, one that broke the continuity of the horizon line, and, for a little while, he was too excited to look again. He stood, the glasses in his trembling fingers and stared with naked eyes that he knew could not see. After a while he put the glasses back and then followed the horizon. He was afraid that it was an illusion, that his imagination had become too vivid, creating for him the thing that was not, and now that he was a little calmer he meant to put it to the proof.

He moved the glasses slowly from north to east, following the line where sky and water met, and then the hands that held them trembled again. There was the black spot, a trifle larger now, and, forcing his nerves to be calm, he stared at it a long time, how long he never knew, but long enough for him to see it grow and take form and shape, for the infinitesimal but definite outline of mast, sails and hull to emerge, and then for a complete ship to be disclosed.

The ship was coming toward the island. The increase in size told him that. It was no will-o'-the-wisp on the water, appearing a moment, then gone, foully cheating his hopes. If she kept her course, and there was no reason why she should not, she would make the island. He had no doubt from the first that a landing there was its definite purpose, most likely for water.

When he took the glasses from his eyes the second time he gave way to joy. Rescue was at hand. The ship, wherever she went, would take him to some place[Pg 162] where human beings lived, and he could go thence to his own country. He would yet be in time to take part in the great campaign against Quebec, sharing the dangers and glory with Willet, Tayoga, Grosvenor and the others. The spirits in the air had sung to him a true song, when his eyes were shut, and, in his leaping exultation, he forgot the warning note that had appeared in their song, faint, almost buried, but nevertheless there.

He put the glasses to his eyes a third time. The ship was tacking, but that was necessary, and it was just as certain as ever that her destination was the island. Owing to the shifts and flaws in the wind it would be night before she arrived, but that did not matter to him. Having waited months he could wait a few hours longer. Likely as not she was an English ship out of the Barbadoes, bound for the Carolinas. He must be somewhere near just such a course. Or, maybe she was a colonial schooner, one of those bold craft from Boston. There was a certain luxury in speculating on it, and in prolonging a doubt which would certainly be solved by midnight, and to his satisfaction. It was not often that in real life one looked at a play bound to develop within a given time to a dramatic and satisfying finish.

He remained on the crest until late in the afternoon, watching the ship as she tacked with the varying winds, but, in the end, always bearing toward the island. He was quite sure now that her arrival would be after dark. She would come through the opening in the reefs that he and the slaver had made so hardly in the storm, but on the night bound to follow such a day it would be as easy as entering a drawing room, with the doors held open, and the guest made welcome. He would be there to give the welcome.

He was able to see more of the ship now. As he had[Pg 163] surmised, she was a schooner, apparently very trim and handled well. Doubtless she was fast. The faster the better, because he was eager to get back to the province of New York.

Late in the afternoon, he left the hill and went swiftly back to his house, where he ate an early supper in order that he might be on the beach to give welcome to the guest, and perhaps lend some helpful advice about making port. There was none better fitted than he. He was the oldest resident of the island. Nobody could be jealous of his position as adviser to the arriving vessel.

This was to be a great event in his life, and it must be carried out in the proper manner with every attention to detail. He put on the uniform of an English naval officer that he had found on the ship, and then rifle on shoulder and small sword in belt went through the forest toward the inlet.

The night was bright and beautiful, just fitted for a rescue, and an escape from an island. All the stars had come out to see it, and, with his head very high, he trod lightly as he passed among the trees, approaching the quiet beach. Before he left the wood he saw the top of the schooner's mast showing over a fringe of bushes. Evidently she had anchored outside the reefs and was sending in a boat to look further. Well, that was fit and proper, and his advice and assistance would be most timely.

The wind rose a little and it sang a lilting melody among the leaves. His imagination, alive and leaping, turned it into the song of a troubadour, gay and welcoming. Tayoga's spirits were abroad again, filling the air in the dusk, their favorite time, and he rejoiced, until he suddenly heard once more that faint note of warn[Pg 164]ing, buried under the volume of the other, but nevertheless there.

Alone, driven in upon himself for so many months, he was a creature of mysticism that night. What he imagined he believed, and, obedient to the warning, he drew back. All the caution of the northern wilderness returned suddenly to him. He was no longer rushing forward to make a welcome for guests awaited eagerly. He would see what manner of people came before he opened the door. Putting the rifle in the hollow of his arm he crept forward through the bushes.

A large boat was coming in from the schooner, and the bright moonlight enabled him to see at first glance that the six men who sat in it were not men of Boston. Nor were they men of England. They were too dark, and three of them had rings in their ears.

Perhaps the schooner was a French privateer, wishing to make a secret landing, and, if so, he had done well to hold back. He had no mind to be taken a prisoner to France. The French were brave, and he would not be ill-treated, but he had other things to do. He withdrew a little farther into the undergrowth. The door of welcome was open now only a few inches, and he was peering out at the crack, every faculty alive and ready to take the alarm.

The boat drew closer, grounded on the beach, and the men, leaping out, dragged it beyond the reach of the low waves that were coming in. Then, in a close group, they walked toward the forest, looking about curiously. They were armed heavily, and every one of them had a drawn weapon in his hand, sword or pistol. Their actions seemed to Robert those of men who expected a stranger, as a matter of course, to be an enemy. Hence, they were men whose hands were against other men,[Pg 165] and so also against young Robert Lennox, who had been alone so long, and who craved so much the companionship of his kind.

He drew yet deeper into the undergrowth and taking the rifle out of the hollow of his arm held it in both hands, ready for instant use. The men came nearer, looking along the edge of the forest, perhaps for water, and, as he saw them better, he liked them less. The apparent leader was a short, broad fellow of middle years, and sinister face, with huge gold rings in his ears. All of them were seamed and scarred and to Robert their looks were distinctly evil.

The door of welcome suddenly shut with a snap, and he meant to bar it on the inside if he could. His instinct gave him an insistent warning. These men must not penetrate the forest. They must not find his house and treasures. Fortunately the dinghy was up the creek, hidden under overhanging boughs. But the event depended upon chance. If they found quickly the water for which they must be looking, they might take it and leave with the schooner before morning. He devoutly hoped that it would be so. The lad who had been so lonely and desolate an hour or two before, longing for the arrival of human beings, was equally eager, now that they had come, that they should go away.

The men began to talk in some foreign tongue, Spanish or Portuguese or a Levantine jargon, perhaps, and searched assiduously along the edges of the forest. Robert, lurking in the undergrowth, caught the word "aqua" or "agua,"