Colonel Scott was pacing the walk in front of the battery of the little fort of Coteau-du-lac, viewing alternately lake St Francis, glittering peacefully in the rays of the fast westering sun, and the swift-running river into which it contracted where he stood, with the surges of the rapids farther down. He was tall, and his face was that of a man who had intellect to conceive and will to put his conceptions into force. To the door of a house larger than any of its neighbors, and before which a sentry paced, the Colonel often glanced and when a lady came out, he stepped to meet her. It was his wife, who joined him for an airing before dinner. After admiring, as she had done every day since her arrival, the contrast between the lake and the river, as it went sweeping downwards between forest-covered islands, she asked, “And is there any news? I heard an arrival reported.”
“None since the despatch of last night and it said Wilkinson was still at Sackett’s Harbor.”
“So we may not expect his flotilla of boats this week?”
“No, and were I in Sir George Prevost’s place, they would never leave Sackett’s Harbor.”
“Why, you have told me his Excellency has not sufficient naval force to attack them.”
“I would not attack the flotilla; I would render its purpose abortive. What is the American plan of invasion? I can give it to you in a nutshell, Helen. Wilkinson is to take possession of the St Lawrence with his flotilla and is to meet Hampton at the mouth of the Chateaugay river, when the combined forces will land on the island of Montreal and capture it and the city. Now, to defeat this plan, it is not necessary to destroy the flotilla. If the line of communication between Wilkinson and Hampton is cut, the whole scheme fails.”
“And how would you cut the line?”
“Why, as I have represented time and again to headquarters, by the capture of French Mills. Four hundred men could take and hold that place, and with it in British hands Wilkinson and Hampton would be as completely prevented from acting in concert as if Hampton was back to his slaves in Carolina and Wilkinson to his gally-pots. It provokes me to see the opportunities our forces miss. The war in the time of Washington was a series of blunders on our side and it looks as if the second was going to be a repetition.”
“And you blame his Excellency?”
“Yes and his staff. He is brave personally, and he is active to fussiness, but he is unable to plan a campaign or carry it out. Here we have the flower of the British army arriving by every convoy, yetour policy is a purely defensive one and changed every day. Out upon such a peddling course of action! I would teach the braggarts who lurk on yonder heights that Canada is not to be invaded with impunity, and that she has hearts to dare and die in defence of her independence.”
“Well, Norman, it may prove to be all for the best. So far Canada has repulsed every attempt at invasion.”
“It is not for the best. I have made suggestion after suggestion to improve the opportunities presented to me, and every one has been set aside, and I am condemned to a course of inaction that galls and frets me.”
Here an orderly approached. “An Indian and a young woman want to speak with you.”
“I will go,” said Mrs Scott.
“Do not,” cried the Colonel, “what tete-a-tete may I not have with the lovely squaw.”
“Please, sir,” said the orderly, “she is not a squaw. She is white and a Scotchwoman by her speech.”
“And young to boot,” exclaimed Mrs Scott archly, “I shall certainly stay and keep you from falling into temptation.”
“Bring them this way,” said the Colonel, and the orderly returned with Hemlock and Maggie.
“In truth an odd-matched pair,” whispered the Colonel as he saw them approach.
“Why, it’s you, Hemlock. I thought you were raising the war-whoop on the Huntingdon frontier.And who may your companion be? Too young to be your wife—too fair to be your sweetheart.”
The Indian’s features relaxed into the nearest approach they ever came to a smile, as he answered, “An arrow from another bow than mine has struck the doe.”
“Well, Hemlock, do you bring me news from Hinchinbrook? When is Hampton going to march?”
In reply, Hemlock briefly told how he had been at Oka, was sought out there by Maggie and for what purpose. The Colonel listened with stern expression as he was told of Morton’s peril, and when the Indian had done, he plied Maggie with questions. When she had told all, the Colonel brought his fist down heavily on the cannon beside which he stood as he exclaimed, “I knew these Americans were boasters but I did not think they were capable of such cruelty. Once they hung a gentleman wearing His Majesty’s uniform and were allowed to escape under the belief that, tradesmen and farmers as they were, they knew no better, but if they send a second to the gallows, there is not an officer in Canada who would not consider it his duty to challenge every one concerned in the deed.”
With a glance of apprehension at her husband, Mrs Scott with admirable tact strove to divert him from his vengeful mood by changing the subject. Addressing Maggie she asked, “And what is Mr Morton to you that you should risk the peril of these woods to save him? Is he a brother?”
“He is neither kith nor kin to me,” answered Maggie.
“The attraction is of another sort, then. Cupid flies his arrows in these woods as well as the red warrior.”
Maggie blushed and the Colonel, forgetting his anger, gallantly came to her rescue. “And if he does, madam, I would say to Master Cupid, give me the maiden who, like our fair Maggie, would dare the dragons of the field and flood to save her lover.”
“Oh!” retorted Mrs Scott, “that is as much as to say, I would not do that and more for you. What thankless monsters you men are!”
“Nay, spare me, Helen, and as by what she has told us, she has walked from Oka today, perhaps you will take her with you and play the hostess.”
“She has done more than walk from Oka today,” said Hemlock, “she killed a bear and saved my life.”
“What!” cried Mrs Scott in astonishment, and Hemlock told the story of the encounter. When he had done the Colonel stepped forward and grasping Maggie’s hands he said, “I honor you as a brave man honors a brave woman, and if there is any possibility of saving Mr Morton’s life, it shall be done.”
Maggie was too overcome to reply, and Mrs Scott, slipping her arm into hers, led her away to her husband’s quarters, leaving Hemlock and the Colonelin eager converse, which lasted until daylight had nearly faded and until a servant came with word that dinner was waiting the Colonel. Ordering the servant to call one of the sergeants, the Colonel committed Hemlock to his hospitable care and then entered his own quarters. Maggie spent one of the most delightful evenings of her life in the company of the Colonel and his wife, forgetting her weariness and the excitement she had passed through in the enjoyment of social converse of a brighter and wider scope than she had been accustomed. When bedtime came she was solicitous about being called early so that Hemlock might not be kept waiting, when the Colonel assured her he would take her restoration to her home by the Chateaugay into his own hands. When she made her appearance next day, she found her entertainers seated on the veranda, and was concerned to learn that it was near noon and that Hemlock had left at sunrise. The anxious look that flitted across her face, the Colonel relieved by telling her that Hemlock had chosen a route she could not have followed, across the great swamp that lay between the St Lawrence and the Chateaugay, and that he carried a letter to her father, telling where she was and that she would go home by the first safe opportunity.
“And now, my dear Maggie,” said Mrs Scott, “You need not be concerned about those at home but be my companion for a few days. Buried away here in these romantic wilds, you cannotconceive what a treat it is to me to have your society.”
“You are welcome, Miss Forsyth,” added the Colonel, “and you will get a chance before long of a convoy to Annfield, for I expect one from Kingston by the end of the week.”
“But they may be needing me at home, Colonel; my mother is frail and if the Yankees have crossed she will be sore in need of my help.”
“Make yourself easy as to that,” said the Colonel with a smile. “General Hampton, as I know for an assured fact, has not crossed the frontier and will not for several days, at least—perhaps never, for he has no heart in the undertaking. As to Wilkinson coming, I wish he would. I am just afraid he is going to deprive me of the pleasure of giving him the warm reception I have gone to so much trouble to prepare. After lunch, or rather your breakfast, we will take the boat and see that everything is in order for him.”
A couple of hours later they were seated in the Colonel’s long boat, manned by four tars, who, however, were spared the labor of rowing all the way, for the wind was favorable. Heading Grande Isle, they sailed down the south channel of the St Lawrence to a narrow point, where, by means of the trunks of huge trees anchored above where rapids foamed, the passage of boats was made impossible and before these obstructions could be lifted out, the Colonel pointed to his wife andMaggie how a concealed battery aided by sharp-shooters hid among the foliage that lined the river would decimate the occupants of the boats. He considered the southern channel to be so effectually closed that Wilkinson would not attempt it and would, therefore, have to take the northern, where he would have to run the gauntlet of the fire of the fort at Coteau-du-lac. “True it is,” added the Colonel, “that that channel is wide and the current swift, yet with a fire from both banks many boats must needs be crippled or sunk, and those that do escape would have to face a similar ordeal at Long Point, opposite the Cedars rapids, where another battery has been placed.”
“What if the Americans passed in the dark?” suggested Maggie.
“Yes,” added Mrs Scott, “or what if they landed a part of their large force before they came within range of the Coteau batteries and assailed them from the land-side?”
“All that I have considered. Were they to pass in the dark, they would not see to shoot the rapids properly, and their angry waters would be more disastrous than our shot. As to a flank movement, I rely on the Indian scouts to bring me word and, fully warned of their coming, these woods are so dense and cut up by swamps, that, with a hundred men, I would undertake to repulse a thousand.”
“So you keep constant watch?” asked Maggie.
“Unceasing,” answered the Colonel. “If youtake this telescope you will perceive a sail at the upper end of the lake. It is one of the gunboats on the watch, and which would, on appearance of Wilkinson’s flotilla, either make for Coteau or if the wind were unfavorable send a row-boat. Then, on that farthest island there is a guard of regulars, who are likely to give the island a name, for already it is called Grenadier island. To the guard on that island, scouts on the southern shore report daily.”
“Surely you have contrived well,” exclaimed Maggie, “and I just wish the Yankees would come and get what you have prepared for them.”
“‘Their kail het through the reek, as the Scotch say,’” laughed the Colonel, “well I am just afraid I will not see them. Along the river, between Prescott and Cornwall, there is such a succession of points of attack, that, from all I learn of him, Wilkinson is not soldier enough to overcome.”
In returning, the boat landed the party in a cove on Grande Isle, whence, from under the shade of maples, they scanned the lake, shimmering in the sun, and the islets, heavy with trees richly colored by Autumn’s fingers, set in it like gems.
“This is so pleasant,” remarked Mrs Scott, “that I do not wonder at people growing to passionately love Canada. Do you prefer Canada to Scotland, Maggie?”
“I never saw Scotland,” replied Maggie, “but I dearly love Canada and can find it in my heart towish that the Colonel may wring the necks of those who are trying to take it away from us.”
“Well said!” shouted the Colonel, “and Canada is so favored by nature in her line of defence and in her climate, that I cannot conceive how, if her people are true, she can ever come under the heel of a conqueror.”
The day passed happily and so did several others. Accompanying Mrs Scott, Maggie visited the little canals that enabled the boats, that plied between Montreal and Upper Canada, to overcome the rapids, to see the lockmen and their families, and watch the peculiar class of men who assisted the boats in passing upwards, either by poling and towing or by lightening their load with the help of their diminutive carts and ponies. With the garrison and its daily life she became familiar, and the detachment of blue jackets, drafted from the men-of-war at Quebec, partly engaged in manning the gunboats already afloat and in building others, she never wearied in watching. Each day endeared her more to Mrs Scott, who, she learned, had sacrificed her comfort and safety, by accompanying her husband on duty. Following the regiment, she had been with him in India, Egypt, and Spain, and, when ordered on special service to Canada, had unhesitatingly followed him, leaving their two children with friends in England. Maggie saw that her presence was a help rather than a drag upon the Colonel, whom she assisted and cared for asonly a true woman can and preserved him from many privations he must otherwise have undergone. While most anxious to be at home again, it was not without a pang of regret that Maggie learned one morning that a fleet of the King’s bateaux was in sight coming down the lake. An hour afterwards she was on board of one, waving farewell to her friends. Landed at the foot of the Cascade rapids, she walked home before sunset.
The army did not begin a forward movement towards Canada on the day of Morton’s interview with Hampton. It was only the first of several abortive starts, and the autumn days were drawing towards an end with the army still encamped at Four Corners. The American public was indignant at its inaction: much had been expected of the army, yet it had accomplished nothing, and the campaigning season was near an end. The denunciations of the Albany and New York newspapers Hampton could not stoop to reply to: those of the Washington authorities he answered by laying the blame upon Wilkinson. He was to move on Montreal in conjunction with that general, and his failure to leave Sackett’s Harbor he gave as the cause of his own inaction. To the critics who suggested he had sufficient strength to capture Montreal unaided, he represented that his orders from Washington expressly required him to co-operate with the flotilla that was hugging the shelter of Sackett’s Harbor. If he was left free to act by the secretary-of-war, he would show the country what he could do, but he was not free.There were those who thought his excuses were the offspring of his secret wish, to get out of the campaign without risking any great movement. In all those days of dallying, Morton lay forlorn in the stable, sick of his confinement and of prolonged suspense, until the doctor, taking pity upon him, asked, if the General could be induced to grant him the freedom of the camp on parole, would he accept it? Eager to get out of his dismal prison and hopeless of escape, Morton eagerly embraced the offer, and next day he was told he was at liberty to leave his wretched abode during daylight. The boon proved to be of less advantage than he had anticipated. The officers would not consort with him, professing to believe he had been a party to the disfigurement and murder of their late comrade, and the rank-and-file swore at him as an abettor of the Indians and as a Britisher. The miscarriage of the campaign had soured the tempers of the troops, and they were ready to vent it upon Morton or any other of the enemy who came within reach of their tongues. After a few hours’ unpleasant experience, Morton returned to his stable indignant and humiliated. Altho’ thus cut off from intercourse with the military, he enjoyed the freedom of moving about. Even lying on the grass and watching the face of nature, was inexpressibly sweet to him. In course of time he scraped acquaintance with a few civilians, and especially with a storekeeper, Douglass, aScotchman, who showed him such kindness as he dared without bringing upon himself the suspicion of disloyalty. The weather, which had been uninterruptedly dry and hot, underwent a sudden change, to wet and cold, and from suspense as to when they would march into Canada the troops began to hope that orders would come from Washington to retire into winter-quarters. One particularly cold, rainy evening, Morton retired to rest in a mood that was in keeping with his dismal surroundings, and courted sleep to give him temporary relief. How long he might have been lost in slumber he was unconscious, when awakened by something lightly passing over his face. “Keep quiet,” said a voice: “do not cry or you may attract the guard.” The darkness was intense; the patter of the rain on the roof the only sound without. The voice Morton recognized at once as Hemlock’s.
“How did you get here? Do you not know they would tear you limb from limb if they found you?”
“I know it all, but an Indian brave counts nothing when he goes to save a friend. Get up and go with me.”
A momentary feeling of exultation fluttered in Morton’s breast at the prospect of liberty, followed by the depressing recollection that he had given his word not to escape.
“I cannot go with you,” he said in a voice of despair.
“Why? You are well of your hurt, and you canrun a mile or two if we are followed. Come, my arm will help you.”
“Hemlock, had you come a fortnight ago I would have jumped at your call: I cannot tonight, for I have given my word of honor not to escape. I am a prisoner on parole.”
“Honor! Did these Americans treat you as men of honor, when they put the rope round your neck? Your promise is nothing. Come!”
“I cannot, Hemlock. Let them be what they may, it shall never be said that a British officer broke his word. Leave me; get away at once, or you may be caught.”
“I will not leave without you. Think of the fair doe that sorrows in secret by the Chateaugay for you and sought me out to bring you. Come, you shall be with her before another sun has set.”
Morton was puzzled by this speech, but was too anxious concerning Hemlock’s safety to delay by asking what it meant.
“Save yourself, Hemlock; the patrol will be round soon, and if you are discovered you are lost.”
“I fear not: they cannot take me alive.”
“For my sake, then, go; I will not leave, I will keep the promise I have given. Consider this my friend, if you are found here it is death to me as well as you. Go.”
“Not without you; I will carry you on my back, whether you will or not,” and he laid his hand upon Morton to grasp hold of him. At thatmoment, the sound of the tramp of an approaching detachment of soldiers was heard. “It is the patrol, Hemlock; fly for God’s sake.”
Hemlock stepped to the door for an instant, then turning to Morton whispered, “they have torches and will see what I have done, and that will give the alarm. Come, go with me.”
“I cannot,” said Morton decisively.
“Then, give me a token to show her who sent me that I did my duty,” said Hemlock. Eager for his escape, Morton plucked the signet-ring from his finger and pressed it into the Indian’s hand with a farewell grasp. Noiselessly and swiftly Hemlock glided out, across the open, and was lost to sight. Seeing how near the patrol were, Morton closed the door and lay down upon his bed of straw. He heard the tramp of the troops draw nearer, and then a sharp cry of “Halt!” followed by a shout of horror and a volley of curses. “The damned Indians are about!” a voice cried. “Poor Tom,” said another, “he died like a stuck pig.” “See to the Britisher,” shouted a third, “he must know of it.” “Back to your ranks,” commanded the officer, “I will see to what is to be done.” Sending a messenger to headquarters to report, he detailed three others to approach the stable and bring out Morton. One of the three remonstrated. “The redskin may be hiding there and kill us.” “Obey orders,” yelled the officer to his men, who had peculiar ideas of military obedience. “Our muskets cover you.”
Reluctantly they approached, and two simultaneously burst in the door with a rush, while the third held a torch. Their only discovery was Morton lying in his bed. He was roughly dragged to the captain, who, with his men, stood around something stretched upon the grass.
“What do you know of this, prisoner?” asked the captain, and a soldier waved a torch over the object. Morton, with a shudder, perceived it was the body of a soldier that had been stabbed in the breast, and scalped.
“This body is warm,” said the captain, “the deed has been done within a quarter of an hour: you lay within 20 yards of its perpetration; I demand what you know of the slaughter of this sentry of the United States army.”
Morton hesitated. He had no moral doubt that Hemlock had committed the deed, and that the scalp of the dead man was then dangling from his belt, and in his horror of the act was about to tell all, when he suddenly recollected that by doing so he would show himself ungrateful to Hemlock.
“I neither saw nor heard aught of this foul murder,” answered Morton, but his hesitation in replying was noted by men disposed to suspect him. “Let me put my bayonet through him,” said one of the soldiers with an oath, as he rushed upon Morton. There was a flash from the adjoining bush, the crack of a rifle, and the soldier fell dead, with a bullet in his forehead.
“Out with the lights,” shrieked the captain in a transport of fear, as he struck one torch down with his sword and the others were thrown into the pools of rainwater. For a minute or two they listened with palpitating hearts in the darkness, and then the captain whispered for them to move to headquarters, the lights of which were seen near by. Forgotten by them in their alarm, Morton made his way back to the stable and flung himself down on his pallet of straw, perplexed and agitated. In vain he tried to sleep and the night dragged wearily on. When daylight at last began to dawn upon a scene of sullen rain and sodden fields, the sound of voices told him his captors were on the alert. The door was violently opened and a soldier looked in and reported to his comrades outside, “The varmint is still here,” to which he heard the reply, “That beats me!” An hour later a scout entered, lighted a candle, and proceeded to examine the floor of the stable and its contents. When he was done, the door was bolted and, Morton felt assured, a sentry placed outside. Breakfast time passed without his caterer appearing and the forenoon was well advanced before he was disturbed, when a detachment of troops halted and an officer entered. “I have come, Mr Morton, to take you to headquarters.”
Going out, Morton was placed between files and marched to the General’s quarters, where he was shown into a room where several officers wereseated. Motioned to stand at the foot of the table, the presiding officer, a tall, cadaverous man, asked him to tell what he knew of the event of the past night.
“Is this a court-martial and am I on trial?”
“No, it is a committee of enquiry. There ain’t no call for trying you, seein’ you are already a condemned culprit.”
“Then, why should I answer you?”
“Wall, if you make a clean breast of it, we mought recommend the General to commute your sentence.”
“And should I not see fit to answer this irregular tribunal?”
“I ain’t going to knock round the bush with you. At home, everybody knows Major Spooner as up-and-down, frank and square, and I tell you, if you don’t spit out all you know, the rope won’t be taken off your neck a second time.”
“What I know of last night’s shocking event I am ready to communicate to any gentleman who approaches me in an honorable manner, but I scorn to say a word under threats.”
The officers here exchanged nods and winks, and one said: “I knew Mister President, he wouldn’t tell—he dassn’t. He had a hand in killing Jackson—gagged his mouth, mebbe, while the redskin drew his knife.”
Morton, stung to the quick, turned indignantly to the speaker, “Sir, if I had my sword you would either take back your words or know what cold steel is.”
“Pshaw,” was the contemptuous retort, “I don’t care for anything in the shape of a Britisher.”
“That’s so, and you know first-rate how to rile one,” exclaimed the presiding officer approvingly. Then addressing Morton, he added, “We ain’t afeared of your threats, young man, and won’t lose time with you—yes or no, are you going to give evidence?”
“No,” answered Morton firmly.
“That will do: withdraw the prisoner.”
“Excuse me, Major Spooner,” said a voice behind. Morton turned and saw standing by the door an officer whose bearing indicated he was a soldier by profession and not one of a few months’ standing. “I came in after the examination had begun and therefore did not take my seat at the board. If you will allow me, I will endeavor to represent to the accused how matters stand.”
“Sartainly, Colonel Vanderberg; yer ken try him.”
“Then, Mr Morton, the case stands thus: last night one of our men on guard, posted near where you slept, was stabbed and scalped. I need not say, I do not believe for a moment you had any hand in that deed. However, this morning experts were sent to discover the trail of the perpetrator, and they, favored by the softness of the soil, traced the steps of the moccasined feet of an Indian to where the guard stood, thence to your lodging-place and finally from it to the bush whence came the shot that killed one of the patrol.More than all this, I may tell you the footmarks of the Indian are plain inside the stable and beside the place in it where you slept are marks caused by drops of blood. It is thus beyond all question that the Indian visited you, and, with a view to discovering him and so checking a system of barbarous warfare repulsive to all true soldiers, we ask you to tell us what you know of him—ask you, not under threats or taking advantage of your unfortunate position, but as a gentleman and a soldier to assist us by telling what you know of the mysterious affair.”
Morton bowed to the Colonel and replied he had no hesitation in telling him what he knew, and he recounted briefly how he had been awakened during the night by an Indian and urged to fly with him. He was prepared to take oath that he knew not of his slaying the guard, and the drops of blood upon the straw that formed his bed must have dripped from the scalp as the Indian stooped over him and urged him to accompany him. Morton mentioned no name, and none of his questioners seemed to think he could have known the Indian. At any rate their incredulity of his story, verging on disgust, rendered cross-questioning superfluous, Major Spooner said he could not swallow the yarn, and another officer remarked it would be easier for him to go without his bitters for a month than believe a Britisher would not run away when he had a chance, to which the others agreed.
“What!” exclaimed Morton, “do you think, after giving my word of honor to your General that I would not attempt to escape, that I would do so?”
“That is just what we do think, and that there was something we don’t know of that kept you from running away with the Indian.”
Morton’s anger again rose and he was about to say something rash, when Colonel Vanderberg gave his shoulder a monitory touch. “If none of you object, I will take charge of Mr Morton.”
“Yer welkim to the critter,” remarked Major Spooner, at which the others expectorated in order to laugh. “He is under sentence of death, and it lies with the General to say when it shall be carried out. If he is willing you should undertake the provost-marshal’s duty, this committee of enquiry offer you their congratulations.”
To this raillery Colonel Vanderberg said naught, and taking Morton by the arm led him into a vacant room. “Stay here for a minute,” he said. On re-entering he grasped Morton by the hand, while he informed him “the General has given me permission to take you with me, and will you ride with me to Fort Hickory?”
“With all my heart,” answered Morton, and going to the door found several troopers waiting the Colonel, who pointed to Morton to get on the back of one of three spare horses. He did so and they galloped out of the village.
Maggie was busy with household duties when Hemlock entered and sat down near the table at which she stood.
“All away?” he asked.
“All except mother, who is having her afternoon nap.”
Casting a suspicious glance round, the Indian drew something out of his pouch. “Do you know that?”
It was a ring. Maggie examined it and as she recognized whose it was, blushed.
“Is he alive?” she asked, in a low earnest tone, as if fearful that it was a memorial gift.
“Yes; I was with him and spoke to him night before last.”
“Where?”
“At Four Corners.”
“Tell me all?” entreated Maggie, and Hemlock recounted his visit, closing with the remark, “If he had come with me, he would have been here now.”
“But he would have broken his word to the Yankees,” urged Maggie in his defence.
“And perhaps they will break his neck,” answeredHemlock with a grunt. “Major Stovin told me that Hampton’s answer to his letter was that he could allow no interference from outside in his disposal of spies.”
“Morton is not a spy,” exclaimed Maggie indignantly.
“They will punish him all the same unless I give myself up,” said Hemlock, “and I mean to.”
“Oh, Hemlock, they would kill you.”
“Maybe, but Indian would save his friend.”
“He may get off when our men beat them.”
The Indian’s lip curled. “The owls are telling the eagles what to do. When the order came to the Indian bands not to fight but just watch, I left. We would have hung to their sides like wasps on a deer, and marked every mile they marched with deeds that would have caused widows to raise the funeral song from Champlain to the Ohio, but our arms are held fast.”
“You did not tell me how you came by this ring?” faltered Maggie, as she shyly tried it on her fingers.
“I asked him for a token, and he gave me that.”
“A token for whom, Hemlock?”
“For you.”
“For me!” gasped Maggie, with beaming eyes, while her color came and went.
Hemlock nodded and said no more. Turning her head away from him, Maggie pressed the token to her lips. On the Indian’s rising to go, sheentreated him to stay. Her brothers were at the camp, but her father was only at the rear end of the lot stooking corn, and he might go and see him. Hemlock, who had the dislike of his race to manual labor, said he would wait, and catching up the fishing-rod of her younger brother, prepared it to beguile the denizens of the river that flowed past the shanty, and continued fishing until the old man returned, who sat down beside Hemlock and got into an engrossing conversation, which was ended by Maggie’s calling them to supper. When the meal was fairly under way, the father said:
“Hemlock wants us to leave. He says the Americans will be here in a day or two. He offers to bring Indians with enough of canoes to take you and Maggie to Montreal.”
“Leave my hame for thae Yankees!” exclaimed Mrs Forsyth; “no a step will I gang oot o’ my way for the deils.”
“Hemlock says they may burn down the house and insult you, an’ ye wad be better oot o’ their way.”
“I wad like to see the Yankee loon that wad try to set a low to oor bit biggin; I wad ding some dacency into his heid.”
“Think o’ Maggie, guid wife.”
Before her mother could speak, Maggie declared “she wasna fear’t an’ wad bide wi’ her mither, thankin’ Hemlock a’ the same.”
“You see, Hemlock, hoo wi’ Scotch bodies stickby our hames. Down to the women and bairns, we will fecht to the last gasp to haud them.”
Hemlock said nothing and helped himself to another piece of johnny-cake. The subject, however, had excited Mrs Forsyth, who mingled denunciations of the invaders with regrets at leaving Scotland.
“Toots, woman, Canada is a better country for the puir man than Scotlan.”
“I am no denyin’ that, but eh, there was a couthie security there that’s no here, an’ for a sicht o’ its bonnie howes an’ glens I’d gie onything. The first an’ the last sicht each day frae my faither’s door was the Pentlands, an’ no trees, trees, wi’ snaw an’ ice hauf the year.”
“Ye wadna gae back, mither, for a’ that.”
“Deed would I, gin we a’ went the gither.”
“But ye have aften tell’t me ye wad never cross the sea again, ye were so sick in coming.”
“Na, neither I wad; nae boatie for me.”
“Then, ye canna gang.”
“Hoot, lass, what are ye sayin’; is that a’ ye ken? We could walk roun’.”
“Providence, dear wife, has cast oor lot here an’ it’s oor duty to be content. Please God, we will help to mak o’ Canada a country oor children will be proud o’, an as for thae Yankees, wha come to rob us o’ oor liberty, I am sure their conceit will lead to their fa’ an’ that their designs upon us will come to naething.”
Hemlock rose and prepared to leave. “I will gowith you,” said Forsyth, “and hear what is the news in the camp.”
Getting into the canoe they arrived at the forks in due time, and found great activity in erecting buildings, while carts were arriving every few minutes from the Basin with supplies or leaving empty to reload. In every direction were soldiers encamped, and the evening being cold their fires crackled and blazed along the lines. The soldiers were of all kinds, from habitants in homespun blouses and blue tuques to regulars of the line. The noisiest were the volunteer regiments, composed of young men, lumbermen and city tradesmen, whose exuberant animal spirits the discomforts and privations of camp failed to tame, and where they were, screams, laughter, and singing resounded. Hemlock led the way to a large, white house, the home of an American settler, named Baker, but taken possession of for headquarters, and passing the guard as a privileged character, told the orderly he wanted to see the General. On enquiry, the two visitors were admitted into a good-sized room, in the centre of which was a large table, at which sat a thick-set officer of foreign aspect, Gen. deWatteville, his secretary, and Major Henry, who had succeeded Stovin as local commander. They were evidently engaged in examining regimental reports.
“Hemlock, so you have got back? What news from the lines?” asked the Major.
“Yankees will break camp tomorrow.”
“How do you know? Have you any despatches from our spies?”
“No, but I saw a waggon loaded with axes arrive at Fort Hickory.”
“Well, what about that?”
“The advance camp, nearest to here, is called Fort Hickory: the axes are to chop a road from there to our outposts on the Chateaugay.”
DeWatteville became all attention. “How long would the road be?”
“Three leagues,” answered Hemlock.
“Pooh,” remarked the General, relapsing into indifference, “they cannot cut a road that long through the woods.”
“You don’t know Yankee axemen,” said Hemlock, “they will do it in a day and turn your flank.”
The General simply waved his hand contemptuously. Major Henry, knowing from past acquaintance, Hemlock’s worth and intelligence, asked in a respectful tone, “What do you advise?”
“Send me with all the Indians and we will cut them off.”
DeWatteville could not withhold a gesture of horror. “You would fall upon these axemen, you say are coming, butcher them with your hatchets and scalp them. Eh?”
“Every one of them,” answered Hemlock in an exultant voice.
“Faugh, that is not war; that is murder,” saidthe General, “we will fight the Americans in no such way.”
“It is how they would deal with you,” said Hemlock, “but if you do not want the Indian to fight in the way of his fathers, he will leave you.”
Henry here leant over and whispered into the General’s ear; who answered aloud, “No, I will not hear of it: I will fight as a soldier and will have no savagery.” The Major was evidently disconcerted, and changed the subject by asking Hemlock what led him so far from the lines as to visit Fort Hickory.
“I followed Morton.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the General, “poor fellow, what of him?”
“They were going to hang him, when Colonel Vanderberg took him from Four Corners.”
“You see, General,” said Major Henry with a smile, “the savagery of the invader against whom you would not use the services of Hemlock and his braves in self-defence.”
The General twirled his heavy grey mustache and bit it nervously. “If they hang him, I will let every redskin in the country loose upon them.”
“It would serve Morton better to do so before the rope does its work,” suggested the Major. “Our remonstrances addressed to General Hampton have been met with combined equivocation and insolence. ‘Give up,’ he says, ‘the murderer of Major Slocum and I will set Morton at liberty.’ As much as tosay we screen the murderer—a man I know nothing of and for whose deed His Majesty’s service is not accountable.”
Hemlock said, “Read that again?”
Taking up General Hampton’s despatch in answer to that regarding Morton’s treatment, the Major read it in full. The Indian listened intently and made no comment, but Forsyth said quietly, he was sure Mr Morton had no hand in murdering anybody.
“We all know that,” answered Major Henry, “a more humane and yet a more gallant officer the King has not got. And now, Forsyth, what are you and the settlers going to do when the Americans cross the frontier?”
“Ye’ll excuse me for saying so, but that is a silly question to ask o’ men wha hae gien their sons to serve as sogers and placed their horses, and a’ their barns and cellars contain at your service.”
“You don’t understand me. I mean do you intend staying in your houses should the enemy come, or will you seek safety in Montreal?”
“It wad be hard to gie up to the destroyer all we hae and that we hae gaithered wi’ sic pains in years gane by. My ain mind is, and my neebors agree, that we will stand by our property an’ tak chances.”
“It is the resolve of brave men,” remarked the General, “but it may be in the interest of the campaign to waste the country and leave neither supplies nor shelter for the enemy.”
“Gin sic should prove the case,” answered the farmer, “there’s no an Auld Countryman on the river that wadna pit the fire to his biggin wi’ his ain hand. Gear is guid, but independence is sweet.”
“I hope you will not be asked to make such a sacrifice,” said the Major, “we have reports here of reinforcements on the way that, if they arrive in time, will enable us to meet the enemy.”
The General here intimated to them to retire. Hemlock started as if from a reverie. Going close to the General, he stretched out his right hand after the manner of Indian orators. “You meet the Yankees as soldier meets soldier. The red man meets them as the robbers of his lands, the destroyers of his villages, the slayers of his race. The land was ours, and they have driven us to the setting sun and left us not even standing-room for our lodges. You have called us savages. Who made us savages? The Indian forgets no kindness and forgives no wrong. The hand that has despoiled and struck at us, we will seek late and early, in light and dark, to smite. Our enemy for generations, the enemy we are always at war with, is your enemy today. You may make peace with him tomorrow. We never will. When the Indian dies, he gives his hatchet to his sons. We offer you our help. Tell me to go and do what I will, and the Americans will not drink of the St Lawrence. Ten score Iroquois will keep up the war-whoop along the frontier until they turn.”
The General seemed annoyed and said sharply, “We take you as scouts, not as comrades-in-arms. I will have no barbarian warfare.”
Hemlock drew himself up with dignity as he said: “We are your allies, not your hirelings. Our tribes declared war against the Americans before you did, and if you will not accept our aid we withdraw this night from your camp and shall fight on our own hand.”
Major Henry perceived the mistake made by the General and hastened to undo it. “King George,” he said, “is true to the treaty made with his Indian allies and I am sure you will stand by it too. The General is preparing his plans for receiving the Americans and the Indians will have their place in it.”
Without apparently heeding these words, Hemlock approached close to the General. “I warn you,” he said, “if you reject our aid, great soldier as you may be across the sea, in the warfare of these woods your light will go out like this,” and with a wave of his hand he put out the light of one of the two candles on the table. Turning on his heel, he walked with stately stride out of the room. That night he and his band left the camp and ceased to receive orders from headquarters.
“Well, Morton, our days of inglorious idleness are ended,” exclaimed Col. Vanderberg. “I return from headquarters with orders for an immediate advance.”
“Thank heavens!” ejaculated Morton.
“What! Do you rejoice at an attack on your country? Come, my good friend, I see your judgment is overcoming your feelings, and you are going to cast in your lot with us—the latest convert from monarchism to republicanism.”
“No, no: you need not banter me. What I rejoice at is the ending of a policy of inaction that has kept you, my friend, and your humble prisoner alike in wearisome suspense.”
“It is ended: the die is cast, whatever the result may be. After dinner squads of men begin to chop out a road from Smith’s, and tomorrow Izard comes with reinforcements and under him we bear the banner of the United States into Canada.”
“And what do you propose doing with me when you advance?” asked Morton.
“Hum! To leave you behind means your being returned to Four Corners, with a chance of meetingthe fate you twice escaped. It is against all military rule, but you must go with us. I will not risk you in the hands of these legal Sons of Mars—Spooner et al.”
“Thank you, Colonel; again you have placed me under an obligation I can never repay.”
“I hope not,” answered the Colonel with a smile, “I’d rather not be His Majesty’s prisoner even with Lieutenant Morton as my custodian.”
“No, never; I wish to pay my debt of gratitude in no such way.”
“Say no more, Morton, on that score. The happiest days I have spent this summer have been since I made your acquaintance. If I did you a good turn, I have had compensation. And now to work: there comes a waggon creaking under its load of chopping axes.”
The conversation took place at an outpost of Hampton’s army, close upon the frontier, styled Douglas camp in official documents but known familiarly among the soldiers as Fort Hickory, from the character of the trees that prevailed at this spot. Colonel Vanderberg, instead of placing Morton in custody as he half anticipated, when he dismounted after his ride from Four Corners, took him into the house where he was quartered, and told him in few words he was again on parole and his guest. Without farther allusion to the humiliating and perilous position from which he had snatched him, Col. Vanderberg made him his friendand associate and each passing day strengthened the bond between them. Each had experiences of interest to the other. The Colonel had tales of peril on the Pennsylvania and Ohio frontiers in protecting the settlements from Indian attacks, and Morton, in return, gratified his curiosity as to the organization and character of the British army and English life and habits.
The following morning they had breakfast by candle-light, and on going out, found the camp in a flurry of preparation, troopers ready to mount, engineers with their tools over their shoulders, and a large squad of brawny fellows in flannel shirts with axe in hand, drafted from the various corps and hired from among the surrounding farmers to clear a road to the Chateaugay. All was life, bustle, and confusion. Jumping on horseback, the Colonel speedily got each man into his place, and by the time this was effected, the drum-taps, by which they kept step, of Izard’s column were heard, and that officer gave the word to advance. Preceded by a squad of scouts and sharp-shooters to cover them, the engineers and axemen moved on, then a body of infantry, followed by the troopers, a few commissariat wagons bringing up the rear. The Colonel and Morton were with the troopers. As the long and picturesque cavalcade scrambled over the brow of a hill, the sun had gained the ascendency, and the frost that had whitened everything now sparkled on every stem and leaf as itmelted in the sunbeams. The atmosphere was clear and crisp, and the very odor that rose from the fallen leaves added to its exhilarating quality. When the summit of the ascent was reached, the declivity was abrupt enough to afford a lookout over the tree-tops, and Canada lay outstretched a vast plain at their feet. Far in the distance, could be seen a gleaming line, like a rapier flung across a brown cloak. It was the St Lawrence. The Colonel drew his horse to one side of the road, to permit the troops to pass, while he scanned the inspiring scene.
“All looks peaceful,” he said to Morton, “no sign that under the cover of these woods an enemy awaits us.”
“It is a grand view of a noble country,” replied Morton, “and you may rely on it, there are men awaiting you who will shed the last drop of their blood in its defence.”
The Colonel, drawing his bridle, joined in the march and the glimpse of Canada was lost under overhanging vistas of trees. “Do you know, Morton,” he said, “it seems strange to me that our armies should meet resistance from the Canadians. We speak the same language; we are of the same stock. Why should they fight to the death against uniting with us as equal partners in a free government?”
“You forget, Colonel, that speech and origin are not the strongest elements in national sentiment.You meet a woman with a big man supporting her and bearing himself as if he were proud of her, and you wonder at it, and say the man could find plenty whose faces are pleasanter to look upon and which indicate more intelligence. The man will admit all that, but he tells you the woman is his mother, and to him she is better and more beautiful than all the women in the world beside. In the same way, the British government may be inferior in some points to your new Republic, may have made mistakes in the past, and might be better in some regards, but then she is the mother of the Canadians, and they will not desert her for bouncing Miss Columbia.”
“That won’t do, Morton; you forget that the British government was once, as you term it, our mother also.”
“I did not forget that, and I hope I will not offend you, Colonel, by saying that for that very cause the Canadians dislike Americans. You turned upon your mother, you strove to compass her humiliation; the very base of your patriotic feeling is hatred of her.”
“That is putting it strong, Morton.”
“I think not; the preamble of your declaration of independence is a tirade of gratuitous charges against Great Britain.”
“Then you think Canada will never unite with the Republic?”
“I certainly think so, and those who live to seeit, will find two great English-speaking communities on this continent, with this radical difference between them, that one reviles and seeks to injure the mother-land from which they sprung and the other succors and honors her.”
A commotion in front stopped the conversation and two scouts were seen dragging an old man between them towards the Colonel.
“What’s this?” he asked sharply.
“We have taken a prisoner!” cried one of the men in an exulting voice.
“The divil take you,” interrupted the old man with contentious manner. “Yees had no business wid me.”
“We found him hiding behind some brush watching our men. He is a spy,” said the scout.
“Behind some brush! An’ whose brush was it? Me own, bedad.”
“You had no business there.”
“No business to be on my own farrum! Bad scran to ye, if I had yees in Wixford I’d get the constable to arrist every man o’ yees for trispass.”
“Come, hold your tongue,” said a scout roughly.
“Hould yer own whisht. Ye havn’t mended yer manners since I saw yer backs at Brandywine.”
Col. Vanderberg smiled as he said to the scouts, “I am afraid you have been too hasty. We are now in Canada and must not molest its inhabitants. The old man is a non-combatant, and, as he declares, was on his own farm when taken.”
“If you had seen him kick and scratch and wriggle when we put hands upon him, you wouldn’t say he was a non-combatant, Colonel. He swore at the United States and said he kept one of our flags for his pocket-handkerchief.”
“Tut, tut,” exclaimed the Colonel, “we have not come to fight old men; let him go.”
“Ye’d betther,” remarked the old man with a grin, “or I’ll make ye sorry.”
“Now, what could you do?” asked the Colonel with an amused smile.
The old man sidled up beside the bridle of the Colonel’s horse, and in a tone of mock solemnity, while his eyes sparkled with fun, whispered, “I’d put the curse of Cramwell an ye.”
“Say, friend,” said Morton, “there is something about you that tells me you are an old soldier. Were you ever in the army?”
“Yis, but not in yer riffraff that ye’s call an army.”
“You are mistaken in me,” replied Morton, and drawing aside his cloak showed the scarlet coat of the British service.
“An’ how did ye fall in wid dem rebels? A prisoner are ye, God save us! You’ll be Leftenant Morton that was to be hanged, as I heard tell. Well, well, since ye wern’t born to be hanged, it is drownded ye may be. Av coorse I was in the army an’ got me discharge an’ a grant of land from King George, an’ may the divil catch a hould o’ dem that don’t wish him well.”
“Are all your neighbors of the same mind?” asked the Colonel.
“They are that same. Come wid me to my shanty an’ while I sind for ’im, you will have an illigant dinner of praties an’ milk. There is not wan on the frontier that does not say with Capt. Barron, God bless the King an’ canfound his inimies.”
“Thank you,” answered the Colonel, “but I have other fish to fry today. Tell me this, old man, What difference would it make to you and your neighbors that you should eat your potatoes and milk under the Stars and Stripes instead of the Union Jack?”
“Sure, that’s aisy answered. The differ between atin’ in an inimy’s house an’ aitin’ in yer awn.”
“Come, Morton, we lose time. Good-bye, old man,” and putting spurs to his horse the Colonel galloped to regain his place in the column, followed by Morton.
By noon the scouts had reached the Chateaugay, which they forded without hesitation and advancing on a shanty that stood on the bank, surprised its inmates, a party of Canadian volunteers on outpost duty, while taking an afternoon nap. This capture was of advantage to the Americans, for it delayed by several hours intelligence of their invasion being received at the British headquarters. Shortly afterwards Col. Vanderberg arrived, who, without halting for refreshment, accompanied Gen. Izard down the river some distance, examining thecountry. On returning, men were set to work to prepare a camp for the main army, which he knew was on the march. A thorough soldier, well trained in bush fighting, the Colonel made his arrangements with an acumen and decision that increased Morton’s regard for him. Before sunset a line of scouts was established across the valley, a strongly fortified post established, tents pitched, and a messenger sent with a despatch to Hampton informing him all was ready. Not until then, did the Colonel divest himself of his long-boots and draw up beside the log-fire of the shanty of one Spears to discuss the fare his servant had provided.
On the morning after the events narrated in preceding chapter, General Hampton left his quarters at Four Corners for the new camp. Escorted by 20 cavalrymen, he and his staff rode rapidly over the newly-cut road, and by noon reached the Chateaugay. Halting on the bluff that overlooks the junction of the Outard with that river, and whence he had full view of the camp in busy preparation on the other side of the river, he awaited the arrival of his tents. A stout man and well-advanced in years, the exertion of the journey had fatigued him, and he sat, or rather reclined, on a log in front of a blazing fire, for the day was chilly, and grouped around him were the officers of his staff. At the foot of the bank and in the near distance, were the troopers tending their horses and the officers’ servants preparing dinner.
From his elevated position, the General had a full view of the opposite bank and he watched with complacency the arrival at the new camp, with flutter of flag and tuck of drum, of frequent detachments.
“Everything bodes favorably for our enterprise,”he remarked, “the despatches that awaited me tell of unprecedented success. At every point attempted our battalions have entered the enemy’s territory unopposed and advanced unmolested. The Rubicon has been crossed and terror-stricken the foe flies before us. This afternoon a special messenger shall bear to Albany, New York and Washington the tidings of our triumphant progress—of our undisputed taking possession of this country to which the British authorities make a pretended claim.”
“Your despatch will cause great rejoicing,” said an officer.
“Yes, it will be hailed with loud acclaim, and my enemies who clamored against me, will now perceive that what they stigmatized as inaction was the profoundest strategy. Sixteen miles have we marched into the enemy’s territory and not a hostile bayonet has been seen. Ha, who is this? Draw your swords.”
All eyes turned in the direction of the General’s, and a tall Indian was seen standing immovably beside a giant pine. It was Hemlock. As he remained motionless with folded arms, and was apparently unarmed, the officers got over their alarm, and those who had laid their hands upon their swords, dropped them.
“Sirrah, what do you here? How passed you our guards?” shouted the General.
“I have come to speak with you. You are tento one; your escort is within hail of you, will you listen to me?”
“Go on,” said Hampton.
“You have a British officer held as prisoner. You wrote to Major Stovin that you would set him free if the Indian who killed Slocum were given in exchange. Do you stand by that offer?”
“Morton goes free when the Indian is sent in.”
“Give me an order for his release; the Indian goes to your camp at once.”
“That will not do, Mr Redskin. The exchange must be effected through the British commander. Let him send an accredited officer with a flag of truce and we will treat with him.”
“Before that can be done, Morton may be dead. If you get the Indian what care you for else? The Indian who killed Slocum passes into your hands the moment Morton is given liberty.”
“This is altogether irregular,” remarked an officer, “General Hampton cannot deal with an irresponsible redskin, who, for all he knows, has come here on some scheme of deviltry. See here, was it you that murdered Slocum?”
“I never murdered any man,” answered Hemlock proudly, “but I have killed many in war. Had you the Indian who slew him, what would you do to him?”
“Well, I guess, if the General let us have our way, we would hand him to the men of Slocum’s old regiment and they’d make him wish he had never been born.”
“The Indian might have had good cause for dealing with Slocum as he did?”
“No, you red devil, he could have no cause. He carved him up out of pure deviltry.”
“You are tired, General,” said Hemlock, with a courteous wave of the hand, “and while you rest, will you listen to me, for I have heard that Indian’s story? In the Mohawk valley lived an English family when you Americans rose against King George. A neighbor, who had come from Massachusetts, envied their farm, and, on the Englishman refusing to forswear his allegiance, had it confiscated and took possession. The Englishman had to fly and went through the woods, many days’ journey to Canada, guided by a band of loyal Oneidas. When they reached Canada, a young warrior of that band stayed with them and helped them to find food in the wilderness until crops grew. That Indian gave up his tribe, and lived with them and a daughter came to love him, and they were married and were happy many years, until the mist rose from the lake and she sickened and died. The Indian so loved her that he would have killed himself to follow her to the spirit land, had she not left a daughter, who was his joy and life. When she grew up, the Indian said, She shall be the equal of the best, and he took her to Albany to be taught all ladies learn. A young man saw her, met her, learned of the Indian blood in her veins, and doomed her as hisspoil. He was aided by a companion in deceiving her by a false marriage, she lived with him for a while, was cast off, and her deceiver married the governor’s daughter. The Indian had gone on a far journey; he went to seek for furs in the West to get money for his daughter. In two years he came to Montreal with many canoe-loads, he sold them, he went to Albany, and found his child dying of a broken heart. He took her away with him, he nursed her by the Ottawa—he buried her there. He went back to Albany, and was told the law could not punish Slocum or his friend, who had gone away. Then he sought Slocum and twenty times he could have killed him, but he would not. In his heart he said, Slocum must die not by the knife or bullet, but by torture, and the chance came not until a moon ago, when he met Slocum face to face in the Chateaugay woods about to stab Morton. The Indian took Slocum, and for hours he made him feel part of the pain he had caused him and his child—only a part, for you who are fathers can guess what that Indian and his daughter suffered. Was that Indian to blame? Did he do more to him than he deserved? Will you give the father over to Slocum’s soldiers to be abused and killed?”
“A good yarn,” remarked an officer, “and a true one, for I lived at Albany then and saw the girl; pretty as a picture and simple as a baby. If Major Slocum had not got his hand in first, some otherfellow would and she would have been made a fool of anyway.”
“We will have nigger fathers running after us next,” sneered another officer.
“Did you know Slocum?” asked Hemlock of the first who had spoken, with a quaver in his voice he could not control.
“Guess I did. Slocum and Spooner were chums in those days, and by ——, I believe you are the father of the young squaw you make such a bother about. Won’t we hold him, General?” So saying he rose, as if waiting his assent to seize Hemlock. Before he could take a second step, Hemlock, with a quick motion, snatched his tomahawk, which he had concealed in his bosom, threw it, and leapt into the bush, where he was lost to sight in a moment. The officer, without uttering a word, fell on his back; the head of the tomahawk buried in his forehead. Stunned by the event, the officers lost a few minutes in giving the alarm. When search was made, it was in vain; Hemlock had not left a trace behind him.
* * * * *
The evening set in dismal and rainy, with a raw east wind that made the soldiers seek every available shelter. In the Forsyth household there was the alarm natural to the knowledge that the invaders were within a short distance, but the daily routine of duty was not interrupted and everything had gone on as usual. All had retired to restexcept Maggie, who sat before the fire, building castles in the flickering flames and dying embers. While so engaged, the door, never fastened, opened softly, and Hemlock stepped in. Regardless of his sodden garments, he crouched beside the girl, without uttering a word. “Do you bring news of the coming of the enemy?” she whispered.
“No: they are shivering in their tents.”
“It is a cruel night to be out of doors.”
The Indian nodded assent, and relapsed into silence. “Maggie,” he said suddenly, “I may have to leave Morton to your care.”
“Dear me, Hemlock, what can I do?”
“I have done everything,” he went on to say, “that I could. I gave him a chance to escape from his prison and today I offered Hampton to surrender the Indian they want in exchange for him and he refused. He will treat with the British General alone.”
“That is surely easy, Hemlock. When the Yankees say they will give up Mr Morton for the Indian they blame for murdering their officer, our General will be glad to give up the Indian, provided he can be got.”
“No: our General refuses, saying it would be an unheard of thing for the British to give up an ally for an act of warfare, and he will not listen to the Yankee demand.”
“May be he says that because he cannot get the Indian,” suggested Maggie.
“I am the Indian,” said Hemlock curtly, “and I asked him to bind me and send me to the American camp with a flag of truce, and all he said was, ‘He would sooner hear of Morton being hung than be guilty of such treachery to a faithful ally.’”
“My, Hemlock! What made you be so cruel? That you have a feeling heart I know, for I have seen you cry over your daughter’s——”
With a quick gesture Hemlock stopped her.
“Speak no more of that. It was because of my love for my child that I tortured the wretch to death.” Here he paused, his features working with emotions that cast them into frightful contortions. “Oh, Maggie, I thought if I could have my revenge I’d be happy. I had my heart’s wish on the spoiler of my child and today I brained the villain that helped him, and I am more miserable than ever. My vengeance has done me no good. My child, my daughter, oh come to me!”
The heart of Maggie melted with sympathy. She rose and resting one hand on his shoulder sought his with the other. “Take it not,” he said in a whisper, “it is the hand of blood.”
“Hemlock, I dinna judge you as I would ane o’ oor ain folk, for the nature born with you is no like oors, let alane your upbringing, but I ken you to be an honest, and wronged man, with a kindly heart, and I would share your sorrow that I may lichten it.”