Фредерик Марриет
Diary in America, Series One
Volume One—Chapter Twenty
Montreal, next to Quebec, is the oldest looking and most aristocratic city in all North America. Lofty houses, with narrow streets, prove antiquity. After Quebec and Montreal, New Orleans is said to take the next rank, all three of them having been built by the French. It is pleasant to look upon any structure in this new hemisphere which bears the mark of time upon it. The ruins of Fort Putnam are one of the curiosities of America.
Montreal is all alive—mustering here, drilling there, galloping every where; and, moreover, Montreal is knee-deep in snow, and the thermometer below zero. Every hour brings fresh intelligence of the movements of the rebels, or patriots—the last term is doubtful, yet it may be correct. When they first opened the theatre at Botany Bay, Barrington spoke the prologue, which ended with these two lines:—
“True Patriots we, for be it understood,
We left our country, for our country’s good.”
In this view of the case, some of them, it is hoped, will turn out patriots before they die, if they have not been made so already.
Every hour comes in some poor wretch, who, for refusing to join the insurgents, has been made a beggar; his cattle, sheep, and pigs driven away; his fodder, his barns, his house, all that he possessed, now reduced to ashes. The cold-blooded, heartless murder of Lieutenant Weir has, however, sufficiently raised the choler of the troops, without any further enormities on the part of the insurgents being requisite to that end: when an English soldier swears to shew no mercy, he generally keeps his word. Of all wars, a civil war is the most cruel, the most unrelenting, and the most exterminating; and deep indeed must be the responsibility of those, who, by their words or their actions, have contrived to set countryman against countryman, neighbour against neighbour, and very often brother against brother, and father against child.
On the morning of the – the ice on the branch of the Ottawa river, which we had to cross, being considered sufficiently strong to bear the weight of the artillery, the whole force marched out, under the command of Sir John Colborne in person, to reduce the insurgents, who had fortified themselves at St. Eustache and St. Benoit, two towns of some magnitude in the district of Bois Brulé. The snow, as I before observed, lay very deep; but by the time we started, the road had been well beaten down by the multitudes which had preceded us.
The effect of the whole line of troops, in their fur caps and great-coats, with the trains of artillery, ammunition, and baggage-waggons, as they wound along the snow-white road, was very beautiful. It is astonishing how much more numerous the force, and how much larger the men and horses appeared to be, from the strong contrast of their colours with the wide expanse of snow.
As we passed one of the branches of the Ottawa, one of the ammunition-waggons falling through the ice, the horses were immediately all but choaked by the drivers—a precaution which was novel to me, and a singular method of saving their lives: but such was the case: the air within them, rarified by heat, inflated their bodies like balloons, and they floated high on the water. In this state they were easily disengaged from their traces, and hauled out upon the ice; the cords which had nearly strangled them were then removed, and, in a few minutes, they recovered sufficiently to be led to the shore.
Let it not be supposed that I am about to write a regular dispatch. I went out with the troops, but was of about as much use as the fifth wheel of a coach; with the exception, that as I rode one of Sir John Colborne’s horses, I was, perhaps, so far supplying the place of a groom who was better employed.
The town of St. Eustache is very prettily situated on the high banks of the river, the most remarkable object being the Catholic church, a very large massive building, raised about two hundred yards from the river side, upon a commanding situation. This church the insurgents had turned into a fortress, and perhaps, for a fortress “d’occasion,” there never was one so well calculated for a vigorous defence, it being flanked by two long stone-built houses, and protected in the rear by several lines of high and strong palisades, running down into the river. The troops halted about three hundred yards from the town, to reconnoitre; the artillery were drawn up and opened their fire, but chiefly with a view that the enemy, by returning the fire, might demonstrate their force and position. These being ascertained, orders were given by Sir John Colborne, so that in a short time the whole town would be invested by the troops. The insurgents perceiving this, many of them escaped, some through the town, others by the frozen river. Those who crossed on the ice were chased by the volunteer dragoons, and the slipping and tumbling of the pursued and the pursuers, afforded as much merriment as interest; so true it is, that any thing ludicrous will make one laugh, in opposition to the feelings of sympathy, anxiety, and fear. Some of the runaways were cut down, and many more taken prisoners.
As soon as that portion of the troops which had entered the town, and marched up the main street towards the church, arrived within half-musket shot, they were received with a smart volley, which was fired from the large windows of the church, and which wounded a few of the men. The soldiers were then ordered to make their approaches under cover of the houses; and the artillery being brought up, commenced firing upon the church: but the walls of the building were much too solid for the shot to make any impression, and had the insurgents stood firm they certainly might have given a great deal of trouble, and probably have occasioned a severe loss of men; but they became alarmed, and fired one of the houses which abutted upon and flanked the church,—this they did with the view of escaping under cover of the smoke. In a few minutes the church itself was obscured by the volumes of smoke thrown out; and at the same time that the insurgents were escaping, the troops marched up and surrounded the church. The poor wretches attempted to get away, either singly or by twos and threes; but the moment they appeared a volley was discharged, and they fell. Every attempt was made by the officers to make prisoners, but with indifferent success; indeed, such was the exasperation of the troops at the murder of Lieut. Weir, that it was a service of danger to attempt to save the life of one of these poor deluded creatures. The fire from the house soon communicated to the church. Chenier, the leader, with ten others, the remnant of the insurgents who were in the church, rushed out; there was one tremendous volley, and all was over.
By this time many other parts of the town were on fire, and there was every prospect of the whole of it being burnt down, leaving no quarters for the soldiers to protect them during the night. The attention of everybody was therefore turned to prevent the progress of the flames. Some houses were pulled down, so as to cut off the communication with the houses in the centre of the town, and in these houses the troops were billeted off. The insurgents had removed their families, and most of their valuables and furniture, before our arrival; but in one house were the commissariat stores, consisting of the carcases of all the cattle, sheep, pigs, etcetera, which they had taken from the loyal farmers; there was a very large supply, and the soldiers were soon cooking in all directions. The roll was called, men mustered, and order established.
The night was bitterly cold: the sky was clear, and the moon near to her full: houses were still burning in every direction, but they were as mere satellites to the lofty church, which was now one blaze of fire, and throwing out volumes of smoke, which passed over the face of the bright moon, and gave to her a lurid reddish tinge, as if she too had assisted in these deeds of blood. The distant fires scattered over the whole landscape, which was one snow-wreath; the whirling of the smoke from the houses which were burning close to us, and which, from the melting of the snow, were surrounded by pools of water, reflecting the fierce yellow flames, mingled with the pale beams of the bright moon—this, altogether, presented a beautiful, novel, yet melancholy panorama. I thought it might represent, in miniature, the burning of Moscow.
About midnight, when all was quiet, I walked up to the church, in company with one of Sir John Colborne’s aides-de-camp: the roof had fallen, and the flames had subsided for want of further aliment. As we passed by a house which had just taken fire we heard a cry, and, on going up, found a poor wounded Canadian, utterly incapable of moving, whom the flames had just reached; in a few minutes he would have been burned alive: we dragged him out, and gave him in charge of the soldiers, who carried him to the hospital.
But what was this compared to the scene which presented itself in the church! But a few weeks back, crowds were there, kneeling in adoration and prayer; I could fancy the Catholic priests in their splendid stoles, the altar, its candlesticks and ornaments, the solemn music, the incense, and all that, by appealing to the senses, is so favourable to the cause of religion with the ignorant and uneducated; and what did I now behold?—nothing but the bare and blackened walls, the glowing beams and rafters, and the window-frames which the flames still licked and flickered through. The floor had been burnt to cinders, and upon and between the sleepers on which the floor had been laid, were scattered the remains of human creatures, injured in various degrees, or destroyed by the fire; some with merely the clothes burnt off, leaving the naked body; some burnt to a deep brown tinge; others so far consumed that the viscera were exposed; while here and there the blackened ribs and vertebra were all that the fierce flames had spared.
Not only inside of the church, but without its walls, was the same revolting spectacle. In the remains of the small building used as a receptacle for the coffins previous to interment, were several bodies, heaped one upon another, and still burning, the trestles which had once supported the coffins serving as fuel; and further off were bodies still unscathed by fire, but frozen hard by the severity of the weather.
I could not help thinking, as I stood contemplating this melancholy scene of destruction, bloodshed, and sacrilege, that if Mr Hume or Mr Roebuck had been by my side, they might have repented their inflammatory and liberal opinions, as here they beheld the frightful effects of them.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty One
Crossing the river St. Lawrence at this season of the year is not very pleasant, as you must force your passage through the large masses of ice, and are occasionally fixed among them; so that you are swept down the current along with them. Such was our case for about a quarter of an hour, and, in consequence, we landed about three miles lower down than we had intended. The next day the navigation of the river, such as it was, was stopped, and in eight and forty hours heavy waggons and carts were passing over where we had floated across.
My course lay through what were termed the excited districts; I had promised to pass through them, and supply the folks at Montreal with any information I could collect. The weather was bitterly cold, and all communication was carried on by sleighs, a very pleasant mode of travelling when the roads are smooth, but rather fatiguing when they are uneven, as the sleigh then jumps from hill to hill, like an oyster-shell thrown by a boy to skim the surface of the water. To defend myself from the cold, I had put on, over my coat, and under my cloak, a wadded black silk dressing-gown; I thought nothing of it at the time, but I afterwards discovered that I was supposed to be one of the rebel priests escaping from justice.
Although still in the English dominions, I had not been over on the opposite side more than a quarter of an hour before I perceived that it would be just as well to hold my tongue; and my adherence to this resolution, together with my supposed canonicals, were the cause of not a word being addressed to me by my fellow-travellers. They presumed that I spoke French only, which they did not, and I listened in silence to all that passed.
It is strange how easily the American people are excited, and when excited, they will hesitate at nothing. The coach (for it was the stage-coach although represented by an open sleigh), stopped at every town, large or small, every body eager to tell and to receive the news. I always got out to warm myself at the stove in the bar, and heard all the remarks made upon what I do really believe were the most absurd and extravagant lies ever circulated—lies which the very people who uttered them knew to be such, but which produced the momentary effect intended. They were even put into the newspapers, and circulated every where; and when the truth was discovered, they still remained uncontradicted, except by a general remark that such was the Tory version of the matter, and of course was false. The majority of those who travelled with me were Americans who had crossed the St. Lawrence in the same boat, and who must, therefore, have known well the whole circumstances attending the expedition against St. Eustache; but, to my surprise, at every place where we stopped they declared that there had been a battle between the insurgents and the King’s troops, in which the insurgents had been victorious; that Sir John Colborne had been compelled to retreat to Montreal; that they had themselves seen the troops come back (which was true), and that Montreal was barricaded (which was also true) to prevent the insurgents from marching in. I never said one word; I listened to the exultations—to the declarations of some that they should go and join the patriots, etcetera. One man amused me by saying—“I’ve a great mind to go, but what I want is a good general to take the command; I want a Julius Caesar, or a Bonaparte, or a Washington—then I’ll go.”
I stopped for some hours at St. Alban’s. I was recommended to go to an inn, the landlord of which was said not to be of the democratic party, for the other two inns were the resort of the Sympathisers,—and in these, consequently, scenes of great excitement took place. The landlord put into my hand a newspaper, published that day, containing a series of resolutions, founded upon such falsehoods that I thought it might be advantageous to refute them. I asked the landlord whether I could see the editor of the paper; he replied that the party lived next door; and I requested that he would send for him, telling him that I could give him information relative to the affair of St. Eustache.
I had been shewn into a large sitting-room on the ground-floor, which I presumed was a private room, when the editor of the newspaper, attracted by the message I had sent him, came in. I then pointed to the resolutions passed at the meeting, and asked him whether he would allow me to answer them in his paper. His reply was, “Certainly; that his paper was open to all.”
“Well, then, call in an hour, and I will by that time prove to you that they can only be excused or accounted for by the parties who framed them being totally ignorant of the whole affair.”
He went away, but did not return at the time requested. It was not until late in the evening that he came; and, avoiding the question of the resolutions, begged that I would give him the information relative to St. Eustache. As I presumed that, like most other editors in the United States, he dared not put in anything which would displease his subscribers, I said no more on that subject, but commenced dictating to him, while he wrote the particulars attending the St. Eustache affair. I was standing by the stove, giving the editor this information, when the door of the room opened, and in walked seven or eight people, who, without speaking, took chairs; in a minute, another party of about the same number was ushered into the room by the landlord, who, I thought, gave me a significant look. I felt surprised at what I thought an intrusion, as I had considered my room to be private; however, I appeared to take no notice of it, and continued dictating to the editor. The door opened again and again, and more chairs were brought in for the accommodation of the parties who entered, until at last the room was so full that I had but just room to walk round the stove. Not a person said a word; they listened to what I was dictating to the editor, and I observed that they all looked rather fierce; but whether this was a public meeting, or what was to be the end of it, I had no idea. At last, when I had finished, the editor took up his papers and left the room, in which I suppose there might have been from one hundred to a hundred and fifty persons assembled. As soon as the door closed, one of them struck his thick stick on the floor (they most of them had sticks), and gave a loud “Hem!”
“I believe, sir, that you are Captain M—.”
“Yes,” replied I, “that is my name.”
“We are informed, sir, by the gentleman who has just gone out, that you have asserted that our resolutions of yesterday could only be excused or accounted for from our total ignorance.” Here he struck his stick again upon the floor, and paused.
“Oh!” thinks I to myself, “the editor has informed against me!”
“Now, sir,” continued the spokesman, “we are come to be enlightened; we wish you to prove to us that we are totally ignorant; you will oblige us by an explanation of your assertion.”
He was again silent. (Thinks I to myself, I’m in for it now, and if I get away without a broken head, or something worse, I am fortunate; however, here goes.) Whereupon, without troubling the reader with what I did say, I will only observe, that I thought the best plan was to gain time by going back as far as I could. I therefore commenced my oration at the period; when the Canadas were surrendered to the English; remarking upon the system which had been acted upon by our government from that time up to the present; proving, as well as I could, that the Canadians had nothing to complain of, and that if England had treated her other American colonies as well, there never would have been a declaration of independence, etcetera. etcetera. Having spoken for about an hour, and observing a little impatience on the part of some of my company, I stopped. Upon which, one rose and said, that there were several points not fully explained, referring to them one after another, whereupon “the honourable member rose to explain,”—and was again silent. Another then spoke, requesting information as to points not referred to by me. I replied, and fortunately had an opportunity of paying the Americans a just compliment; in gratitude for which their features relaxed considerably. Perceiving this, I ventured to introduce a story or two, which made them laugh. After this, the day was my own; for I consider the Americans, when not excited (which they too often are), as a very good-tempered people: at all events, they won’t break your head for making them laugh; at least, such I found was the case. We now entered freely into conversation; some went away, others remained, and the affair ended by many of them shaking hands with me, and our taking a drink at the bar.
I must say, that the first appearances of this meeting were not at all pleasant; but I was rightly served for my own want of caution, in so publicly stating, that the free and enlightened citizens of St. Alban’s were very ignorant, and for opposing public opinion at a time when the greatest excitement prevailed. I have mentioned this circumstance, as it threws a great deal of light upon the character of the Yankee or American of the Eastern States. They would not suffer opposition to the majority to pass unnoticed (who, in England, would have cared what a stranger may have expressed as his opinion); but, at the same time, they gave me a patient hearing, to knew whether I could shew cause for what I said. Had I refused this, I might have been very roughly handled; but as I defended my observations, although they were not complimentary to them, they gave me fair play. They were evidently much excited when they came into the room, but they gradually cooled down until convinced of the truth of my assertions; and then all animosity was over. The landlord said to me afterwards, “I reckon you got out of that uncommon well, captain.” I perfectly agreed with him, and made a resolution to hold my tongue until I arrived at New York.
The next day, as I was proceeding on my journey, I fell in with General Brown, celebrated for running away so fast at the commencement of the fight at St. Charles. He had a very fine pair of mustachios. We both warmed our toes at the same stove in solemn silence.
Sunday, at Burlington.—The young ladies are dressing up the church with festoons, and garlands of evergreens for the celebration of Christmas, and have pressed me into the service. Last Sunday I was meditating over the blackened walls of the church at St. Eustache, and the roasted corpses lying within its precincts; now I am in another church, weaving laurel and cypress, in company with some of the prettiest creatures in creation. As the copy-book says, variety is charming.
