This is the story of the fate that befell Lieutenant Henry Crewe and Margaret Neville, his betrothed, who disappeared from the infant city of Halifax on the afternoon of September 18th, 1749.  The facts were gathered by one Nicholas Pinson from the mouths of Indians more or less concerned, from members of the Neville family, and from much sagacious conjecture; and woven, with an infinite deal of irrelevant detail, into a narrative which has been rigorously condensed in the present rendering.  The industrious Pinson’s manuscript, with all its attenuated old French characters, its obscure abbreviations, and its well-bred contempt for orthographical accuracy, might perhaps be found even yet in the Provincial archives at Halifax.  At least, if any one be curious to examine this story in the original, just as M. Pinson wrote it, he may search the archives of Halifax with a reasonable surety that the manuscript is as likely to be found there as anywhere else.

There was a faint, opaline haze in the afternoon air, and in the still waters of the harbor the low hills, with their foliage lightly touched in bronze and amethyst and amber, were faithfully reproduced.  Into a hollow between two knolls wooded with beech trees, ran a shallow cove, its clear waters edged with sand of a tender, greenish gray.  Close to the water’s edge stood the lovers, and across the silence they could hear, pulsating dimly, the hammers of them that were building the city.

“Listen,” said the man, as he drew the girl closely to him and kissed her on the forehead; “those are the strokes that are making a home for us.”

The girl lifted her lips for a kiss that never reached them.  The man was seized from behind, a dark hand covered his mouth; and Lieutenant Henry Crewe, his sword unstirred in its scabbard, found himself pinioned hand and foot, ere he had time to realize that other arms were about him than those of the woman he loved.  With her it fared in like fashion, save that before they covered her mouth she found time for one long piercing cry.  It was heard by those who were working on the city palisades; but no man could tell the direction whence it came.  Presently a search party set out for the thick woods lying a little north of west from the city; but in the mean time the Indians had carried their captives northeastward to the lakes, and were making all speed on the Fundy coast by way of the Shubenacadie trail.

Henry Crewe was a tall man, and well sinewed, and for a brief space he strove so fiercely with his bonds that his fair skin flushed well-nigh purple, and his lips, under the yellow mustache, curled apart terribly, like those of a beast at bay.  Unable to endure the anguish of his effort, Margaret averted her eyes, for she knew the hopelessness of it.  Like all the Nevilles of Nova Scotia to this day, the girl was somewhat spare of form and feature, with dark hair, a clear, dark skin, and eyes of deep color that might be either gray or green.  Her terrible cry had been far less the utterance of a blind terror than a deliberate signal to the garrison at the fort, and so complete was her self-control that when Crewe presently met her gaze his brain grew clearer, he forgot the derision in the Indians’ painted faces, ceased his vain struggles, and bent all his thought to the task of finding means of deliverance.

The captives were thrown into canoes and paddled swiftly to the head of the long basin which runs inland for miles from the head of the harbor.  At the beginning of the portage their feet were unbound, and their mouths set free from the suffocating gags.

“Oh, Margaret!  Margaret!  To think I should have brought you to this!” exclaimed Crewe in a harsh voice, the moment his lips were free.

The girl had confidence in her lover’s power to find some way of protecting her, in case no help should come from the city.  Her sole thought now was to show herself brave, and in no way to embarrass his judgment.  Before she could answer, however, the leader of the band struck Crewe across the mouth with the flat of his hatchet, as a hint that he should keep silence.  Had Crewe been alone, bound as he was, he would have felled his assailant with a blow of the foot; but for Margaret’s sake he forced himself to endure the indignity tamely, though his blue eyes flamed with so dangerous a light that the Indian raised his hatchet again in menace.  The girl’s heart bled under the stroke and at sight of the wounded mouth, but she prudently abstained from speech.  Only she spoke one word in a low voice that said all things to her lover’s ear, the one word “Beloved!”

To the chief now spoke one of the band in the Micmac tongue: ­

“Why not let the paleface talk to his young squaw?  It will be the more bitter for them at the last!”

“No,” said the chief, grinning; “it is as death to the palefaces to keep silence.  But they shall have time to talk at the last.”

Throughout the long journey, which was continued till midnight under the strong light of a moon just at the full, the lovers held no converse save in the mute language of eye and gesture, and that only during the rough marches from one lake to another.  The greater part of the journey was by canoe.  At night they were lashed to trees some way apart, and separated by the camp-fire.  Crewe dared not address a word to Margaret lest he should anger his captors into doing him some injury that might lessen his powers of thought or action, and the girl, seeing that no immediate gain could be had from speech, dreaded to be smitten on the mouth in a way that might disfigure her in her lover’s eyes.  Only at times, when a wind would blow the smoke and flame aside, she looked across the camp-fire into the young man’s face, and in the look and in the smile of the steady lips he read not only an unswerving courage, but also a confidence in his own resourceful protection, which pierced his heart with anguish.  All night he pondered schemes of rescue or escape, until his brain reeled and his soul grew sick before the unsolvable problem.  He could move neither hand nor foot, and just before dawn he sank to sleep in his bonds.  Then for the waking girl the loneliness became unspeakable, and her lips grew ashen in the first light of the dawn.

Late on the following day the band drew up their canoes on the banks of the Shubenacadie, where its waters began to redden with the tide, and struck through the woods by a dark trail.  The next day the captives were tortured by the sight of a white steeple in the distance, belonging to an Acadian settlement.  Crewe judged this to be the village of Beaubassin.  The surmise was confirmed when, a few hours later, after a wide detour to avoid the settlement, the flag of France was seen waving over the foliage that clothed a long line of heights.  By this time the band was traversing a vast expanse of salt marshes, and after crossing a little tidal stream near its head, they turned sharply southwestward toward the sea.  Presently the raw red earthworks of Beausejour rose into view some seven or eight miles distant across the marshes.  There, among his bitter enemies, Crewe knew he might find sure succor, if only the gallant Frenchmen could be made aware of what was passing so near them.  He saw Margaret’s eyes fixed with terrible appeal upon the hostile works, wherein for her and for her lover lay safety; and agonized to feel his utter helplessness, he raised a long and ringing shout which, as it seemed to him, must reach the very souls of those behind the ramparts.  Margaret’s heart leaped with hope, which flickered out as she saw the Indians laugh grimly at the foolish effort.  To be within sight of help, and yet so infinitely helpless!  For the first time the girl yielded to complete despair, and her head sank upon her breast.  In the Journal of the Sieur Carre, at this time a lieutenant at Beausejour, occurs this entry, under date of September 20, 1749: ­

“Noted this morning a small party of natives moving down the shores of the river Tintamarre.  Too far off to distinguish whether it was a war party or not, but this their order of march seemed to suggest.”

After skirting for perhaps an hour a red and all but empty channel, which Crewe recognized by hearsay as the bed of the Tantramar (or Tintamarre, “water of hubbub"), the savages suddenly led their captives down the steep, gleaming abyss of mud to the edge of the shallow current, which now, at low tide, clattered shrilly seaward over clods of blue clay and small stones rolled down from the uplands.

Margaret awoke from her despair enough to shudder disdainfully, as her feet sank more than ankle deep in the clinging ooze, and to wonder why the Indians should halt in such a place.  She met her lover’s glance, and saw that he was singularly disturbed.

The place was like a hideous gaping pit.  A double winding of the channel closed it in above and below.  Some forty or fifty feet over their heads, against a pure sky of loveliest blue, waved a shaggy fringe of salt grasses, yellowing in the autumn air.  This harsh and meagre herbage encircled the rim of the chasm, and seemed to make the outer world of men infinitely remote.  The sun, an hour or two past noon, glared down whitely into the gulf, and glistened, in a myriad of steely reflections, from the polished but irregular steeps of slime.  There was something so strange and monstrous in the scene that Margaret’s dull misery was quickened to a nameless horror.  Suddenly a voice, which she hardly recognized as that of her lover, said slowly and steadily: ­

“Margaret, this is the end of our journey; we have come to the end.”

Looking up she met Crewe’s eyes fastened upon her with a gaze which seemed to sustain her and fill her nerves with strength.  With the end of his uncertainty his will became clear, and his resolution perfect as tempered steel.  An Indian had brought two stakes and thrown them on the mud at the leader’s feet.  Margaret looked at the rough-trimmed saplings, at the tide-mark far up the dreadful slope, then again into her lover’s face.  She understood; but she gave no sign, save that her skin blanched to a more deathly pallor, and she exclaimed in a voice of poignant regret:  “Have we kept silence all these long hours only for this?  And I had so much to say to you!”

“There will be time,” he said gently, and his voice was a caress.  “The flood tide has not yet begun, and it will take some hours.  And it was well, dear, that we could not speak; for so you had hope till the last to support you, while I had none, having heard the Indians say we were to die, though they said not in my hearing when or how.  Had you known you might not have had this high courage of yours, that now gives me strength to endure the utmost.  Dear, your heroic fortitude has been everything to me.”

A faint flush of pride rose into the girl’s face, and she stretched out her pinioned arms to him, and cried:  “You shall not be deceived in me.  I will be worthy of you, and will not shame our race before these beasts.”

By this time the stakes were driven into the strong clay.  They were placed some way up the slope, and one a little space above the other.  To the lower stake they fastened Crewe.  As the girl was being bound to the other, her arms were freed for a moment that the savages might the more readily remove her upper garments, and by a swift movement she loosened her hair so that it fell about her to her knees, ­the splendid Neville hair, still famous in the Province.  There was no bounty then on English scalps, and the horror of the scalping knife was not threatened them.  When the savages had made their task complete, they laughed in their victims’ faces and retreated up the steep and over the grassy rim.

“Are they gone?” asked the girl.

“No, they are lying in wait to watch us,” answered Crewe; and as he ceased speaking a muffled sound was heard, and with a sudden hubbub that filled the chasm with clamor, the first of the flood-tide came foaming round the curve, and the descending current halted as if in fear of the meeting.  The next moment the bed of the stream was hidden by a boiling reddish torrent, racing up the channel; and the tide was creeping by inches toward the captives’ feet.  For an hour or more the bright gulf of death was so loud with this turmoil and with the echoes from the red walls of mud, and the yellow eddies of foam whirled and swept so dizzily past their eyes, that the captives’ senses were dulled in a measure, as if by some crude anodyne or vast mesmeric influence.  When, however, the channel was about one-third full and the water now beginning to cover Crewe’s feet, the flood became more quiet and equable, spreading smoothly over freer spaces.  Presently there was a frightful silence, intensified by the steady sunlight, and broken only by the stealthy, soft rush and snake-like hiss of the tide.  Then, as Margaret’s brain grew clear in the stillness, a low cry, which tortured Crewe’s features, forced itself from her lips.  She realized for the first time why the stake to which she was bound had been set higher than her lover’s.  She would watch the cruel colored water creep over Crewe’s mouth, then cover his eyes, and hide at last the brave head she had longed to kiss, ere it climbed to ease her own lips of life.  She said:  “Love, I will lay my face down in the water as soon as it is near enough, and I shall not be far behind you.”

A wide-winged gray gull, following the tide up the channel, gave a startled cry as he came upon the silent figures, and rose higher, with sudden flapping, as he turned his flight away across the marshes.

In the Journal of the Sieur Carre, in Beausejour, there is a second entry under the date of September 20, 1749.  It was added on a succeeding day.  Translated fully it runs thus: ­

“In the afternoon took a guard and marched across the Tintamarre to see what mischief the redskins had been at, having observed them to leave two of their number in the channel, and to linger long on the brink, as if watching something in the stream.  It was within an hour of high tide when we reached the spot, the savages disappearing on our approach.  Saw on the further shore a piteous sight, whereat our hearts burned to follow the redskins and chastise their devilish malice.  A woman was bound to a stake, her face fallen forward in the water, and a wonderful luxuriance of dark hair spread about her and floating on the current.  Swam across the river, with those of my men following who could, and, plunging beneath the tide, cut her bonds.  But found the life had fled, at which we wondered; for had she held her head erect the water would not yet have been within a little of her chin.  But presently we found, beneath the water, the body of a young man, bound likewise to a stake; and it seemed to us we thereupon understood why the poor lady had been in such haste to die.  The lovers, for so we deemed them, were plainly English, and we took them with us back to the Beausejour, purposing to give them Christian burial, ­and more than ever cursing the hard necessity which forces us to make alliance with the natives.”