True Stories From History and Biography (13 page)

"O Grandfather, how glad I should have been to live in those times!" cried
Charley. "And what reward did the king give to General Pepperell and
Governor Shirley?"

"He made Pepperell a baronet; so that he was now to be called Sir William
Pepperell," replied Grandfather. "He likewise appointed both Pepperell and
Shirley to be colonels in the royal army. These rewards, and higher ones,
were well deserved; for this was the greatest triumph that the English met
with, in the whole course of that war. General Pepperell became a man of
great fame. I have seen a full length portrait of him, representing him in
a splendid scarlet uniform, standing before the walls of Louisbourg, while
several bombs are falling through the air."

"But, did the country gain any real good by the conquest of Louisbourg?"
asked Laurence. "Or was all the benefit reaped by Pepperell and Shirley?"

"The English Parliament," said Grandfather, "agreed to pay the colonists
for all the expenses of the siege. Accordingly, in 1749, two hundred and
fifteen chests of Spanish dollars, and one hundred casks of copper coin,
were brought from England to Boston. The whole amount was about a million
of dollars. Twenty-seven carts and trucks carried this money from the
wharf to the provincial treasury. Was not this a pretty liberal reward?"

"The mothers of the young men, who were killed at the siege of Louisbourg,
would not have thought it so," said Laurence.

"No, Laurence," rejoined Grandfather; "and every warlike achievement
involves an amount of physical and moral evil, for which all the gold in
the Spanish mines would not be the slightest recompense. But, we are to
consider that this siege was one of the occasions, on which the colonists
tested their ability for war, and thus were prepared for the great contest
of the Revolution. In that point of view, the valor of our forefathers was
its own reward."

Grandfather went on to say, that the success of the expedition against
Louisbourg, induced Shirley and Pepperell to form a scheme for conquering
Canada. This plan, however, was not carried into execution.

In the year 1746, great terror was excited by the arrival of a formidable
French fleet upon the coast. It was commanded by the Duke d'Anville, and
consisted of forty ships of war, besides vessels with soldiers on board.
With this force, the French intended to retake Louisbourg, and afterwards
to ravage the whole of New England. Many people were ready to give up the
country for lost.

But the hostile fleet met with so many disasters and losses, by storm and
shipwreck, that the Duke d'Anville is said to have poisoned himself in
despair. The officer next in command threw himself upon his sword and
perished. Thus deprived of their commanders, the remainder of the ships
returned to France. This was as great a deliverance for New England, as
that which old England had experienced in the days of Queen Elizabeth,
when the Spanish Armada was wrecked upon her coast.

"In 1747," proceeded Grandfather, "Governor Shirley was driven from the
Province House, not by a hostile fleet and army, but by a mob of the
Boston people. They were so incensed at the conduct of the British
Commodore Knowles, who had impressed some of their fellow-citizens, that
several thousands of them surrounded the council-chamber, and threw stones
and brick-bats into the windows. The governor attempted to pacify them;
but, not succeeding, he thought it necessary to leave the town, and take
refuge within the walls of Castle William. Quiet was not restored, until
Commodore Knowles had sent back the impressed men. This affair was a flash
of spirit, that might have warned the English not to venture upon any
oppressive measures against their colonial brethren."

Peace being declared between France and England in 1748, the governor had
now an opportunity to sit at his ease in Grandfather's chair. Such repose,
however, appears not to have suited his disposition; for, in the following
year, he went to England, and thence was dispatched to France, on public
business. Meanwhile, as Shirley had not resigned his office,
Lieutenant-Governor Phips acted as chief magistrate in his stead.

In the early twilight of Thanksgiving eve, came Laurence, and Clara, and
Charley, and little Alice, hand in hand, and stood in a semi-circle round
Grandfather's chair. They had been joyous, throughout that day of
festivity, mingling together in all kinds of play, so that the house had
echoed with their airy mirth.

Grandfather, too, had been happy, though not mirthful. He felt that this
was to be set down as one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In truth,
all his former Thanksgivings had borne their part in the present one; for,
his years of infancy, and youth, and manhood with their blessings and
their griefs, had flitted before him, while he sat silently in the great
chair. Vanished scenes had been pictured in the air. The forms of departed
friends had visited him. Voices, to be heard no more on earth, had sent an
echo from the infinite and the eternal. These shadows, if such they were,
seemed almost as real to him, as what was actually present—as the merry
shouts and laughter of the children—as their figures, dancing like
sunshine before his eyes.

He felt that the past was not taken from him. The happiness of former days
was a possession forever. And there was something in the mingled sorrow of
his lifetime, that became akin to happiness, after being long treasured in
the depths of his heart. There it underwent a change, and grew more
precious than pure gold.

And now came the children, somewhat aweary with their wild play, and
sought the quiet enjoyment of Grandfather's talk. The good old gentleman
rubbed his eyes, and smiled round upon them all. He was glad, as most aged
people are, to find that he was yet of consequence, and could give
pleasure to the world. After being so merry, all day long, did these
children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh, then, old Grandfather had yet
a place to fill among living men,—or at least among boys and girls!

"Begin quick, Grandfather," cried little Alice; "for Pussy wants to hear
you."

And, truly, our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon the hearth rug, basking
in the warmth of the fire, pricking up her ears, and turning her head from
the children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather to the children, as if
she felt herself very sympathetic with them all. A loud purr, like the
singing of a tea-kettle, or the hum of a spinning-wheel, testified that
she was as comfortable and happy as a cat could be. For Puss had feasted,
and therefore, like Grandfather and the children, had kept a good
Thanksgiving.

"Does Pussy want to hear me?" said Grandfather, smiling. "Well; we must
please Pussy, if we can!"

And so he took up the history of the chair, from the epoch of the peace of
1748. By one of the provisions of the treaty, Louisbourg, which the New
Englanders had been at so much pains to take, was restored to the king of
France.

The French were afraid, that, unless their colonies should be better
defended than heretofore, another war might deprive them of the whole.
Almost as soon as peace was declared, therefore, they began to build
strong fortifications in the interior of North America. It was strange to
behold these warlike castles, on the banks of solitary lakes, and far in
the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling his birch-canoe on Lake
Champlain, looked up at the high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on
stone, bristling with cannon, and the white flag of France floating above.
There were similar fortifications on Lake Ontario, and near the great
Falls of Niagara, and at the sources of the Ohio River. And all around
these forts and castles lay the eternal forest; and the roll of the drum
died away in those deep solitudes.

The truth was, that the French intended to build forts, all the way from
Canada to Louisiana. They would then have had a wall of military strength,
at the back of the English settlements, so as completely to hem them in.
The king of England considered the building of these forts as a sufficient
cause of war, which was accordingly commenced in 1754.

"Governor Shirley," said Grandfather, "had returned to Boston in 1753.
While in Paris, he had married a second wife, a young French girl, and now
brought her to the Province House. But, when war was breaking out, it was
impossible for such a bustling man to stay quietly at home, sitting in our
old chair, with his wife and children round about him. He therefore
obtained a command in the English forces."

"And what did Sir William Pepperell do?" asked Charley.

"He staid at home," said Grandfather, "and was general of the militia. The
veteran regiments of the English army, which were now sent across the
Atlantic, would have scorned to fight under the orders of an old American
merchant. And now began what aged people call the Old French War. It would
be going too far astray from the history of our chair, to tell you one
half of the battles that were fought. I cannot even allow myself to
describe the bloody defeat of General Braddock, near the sources of the
Ohio River, in 1755. But, I must not omit to mention, that when the
English general was mortally wounded, and his army routed, the remains of
it were preserved by the skill and valor of GEORGE WASHINGTON."

At the mention of this illustrious name, the children started, as if a
sudden sunlight had gleamed upon the history of their country, now that
the great Deliverer had arisen above the horizon.

Among all the events of the Old French War, Grandfather thought that there
was none more interesting than the removal of the inhabitants of Acadia.
From the first settlement of this ancient province of the French, in 1604,
until the present time, its people could scarcely ever know what kingdom
held dominion over them. They were a peaceful race, taking no delight in
warfare, and caring nothing for military renown. And yet, in every war,
their region was infested with iron-hearted soldiers, both French and
English, who fought one another for the privilege of ill treating these
poor harmless Acadians. Sometimes the treaty of peace made them subjects
of one king, sometimes of another.

At the peace of 1748, Acadia had been ceded to England. But the French
still claimed a large portion of it, and built forts for its defence. In
1755, these forts were taken, and the whole of Acadia was conquered, by
three thousand men from Massachusetts, under the command of General
Winslow. The inhabitants were accused of supplying the French with
provisions, and of doing other things that violated their neutrality.

"These accusations were probably true," observed Grandfather; "for the
Acadians were descended from the French, and had the same friendly
feelings towards them, that the people of Massachusetts had for the
English. But their punishment was severe. The English determined to tear
these poor people from their native homes and scatter them abroad."

The Acadians were about seven thousand in number. A considerable part of
them were made prisoners, and transported to the English colonies. All
their dwellings and churches were burnt, their cattle were killed, and the
whole country was laid waste, so that none of them might find shelter or
food in their old homes, after the departure of the English. One thousand
of the prisoners were sent to Massachusetts; and Grandfather allowed his
fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give his auditors an idea of
their situation.

We shall call this passage the story of

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians, when the armed soldiers drove
them, at the point of the bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean, in the crowded transport
vessels. But, methinks, it must have been sadder still, when they were
landed on the Long Wharf, in Boston, and left to themselves, on a foreign
strand.

Then, probably, they huddled together, and looked into one another's faces
for the comfort which was not there. Hitherto, they had been confined on
board of separate vessels, so that they could not tell whether their
relatives and friends were prisoners along with them. But, now, at least,
they could tell that many had been left behind, or transported to other
regions.

Now, a desolate wife might be heard calling for her husband. He, alas! had
gone, she knew not whither, or perhaps had fled into the woods of Acadia,
and had now returned to weep over the ashes of their dwelling. An aged
widow was crying out, in a querulous, lamentable tone, for her son, whose
affectionate toil had supported her for many a year. He was not in the
crowd of exiles; and what could this aged widow do but sink down and die?
Young men and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder by separation,
had hoped, during the voyage, to meet their beloved ones at its close.
Now, they began to feel that they were separated forever. And, perhaps, a
lonesome little girl, a golden-haired child of five years old, the very
picture of our little Alice, was weeping and wailing for her mother, and
found not a soul to give her a kind word.

Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were here! Country lost!—friends
lost!—their rural wealth of cottage, field, and herds, all lost together!
Every tie between these poor exiles and the world seemed to be cut off at
once. They must have regretted that they had not died before their exile;
for even the English would not have been so pitiless as to deny them
graves in their native soil. The dead were happy; for they were not
exiles!

While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity and inquisitiveness of
the New England people would naturally lead them into the midst of the
poor Acadians. Prying busy-bodies thrust their heads into the circle,
wherever two or three of the exiles were conversing together. How puzzled
did they look, at the outlandish sound of the French tongue! There were
seen the New England women, too. They had just come out of their warm,
safe homes, where every thing was regular and comfortable, and where their
husbands and children would be with them at night-fall. Surely, they could
pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or, did the sign of the
cross, which the Acadians continually made upon their breasts, and which
was abhorred by the descendants of the Puritans—did that sign exclude all
pity?