The Indian was evidently touched. Grasping herhand he bent over it and pressed it to his lips. After a long pause, Maggie added: “If you would give up your heathen ways and turn to the Lord, your path would become clear.”
“I once followed the Lord,” said Hemlock, “I learned of Him from my wife, and I taught my daughter to love Jesus, but when the cloud came and its darkness blinded me, I put away the white man’s God and went back to the ways of my fathers.”
“Leave them again?” entreated Maggie.
“Too late: I die as I am.”
“But you are no going to die, Hemlock. You’ve many years to live.”
“I die before the new moon comes; my oki told me so in a dream last night, and that is why I have come to talk with you about Morton. You love him?”
Too honest to utter the “no” that came to her faltering tongue, Maggie’s head drooped and her face flushed.
“I know you do,” Hemlock went on, “and I know he loves you, tho’ his heart has not told his head yet. I know not where he is; if I did, we would attack his guard and rescue him this night. They took him away from Fort Hickory and I have not got his track yet. When they find where he is I want you to give orders to my men when I am gone.”
“This is beyond me, Hemlock.”
“Listen: I have told my Indians they must save him and to obey you.”
“Tell my brothers or my father.”
“The Indians would not obey them: they believe what I told them, that I have given you my medicine. If Morton is not saved this week, he dies.”
“If our men beat the Yankees will they not rescue him?”
“Yankees would shoot him before they would let him escape, and they will hang him if they retreat. They have let him live hoping to get me; when they know they cannot, they will kill him.”
Maggie shuddered. “And what am I to do?”
Hemlock answered: “The Indian has a good hand but a poor head. When they come and tell you they have found where Morton is kept, you will order them when and how to make the attack and into the messenger’s hand you will press this medicine, and tell him it will make success sure.” Here he took a pouch from his breast and selected a small package—something sewed up in a bit of bird’s skin.
“I hope you will live to save your friend yourself,” said Maggie.
Hemlock gloomily shook his head, and rising walked towards the door, which he opened and stepped out into the cheerless night. Maggie followed and looked out. She could see nothing: he was gone. That night she rested all the more comfortably, from knowing that within hail was a faithful band of Indians.
Two days later Hemlock was one of a group standing on the north bank of the river, where it broke into a short rapid, named from the settler whose shanty overlooked it, Morrison’s rapid. The group included representatives of the different corps that had been gathered together, with several settlers. They were watching, in the fading twilight, a thin line of moving red, emerging from the bush. It was a battalion of the Canadian Fencibles that had come from Kingston to reinforce deWatteville. The newcomers were soon among them, brawny Highlanders from Glengarry, French Canadian lumbermen, and a number of farmers from the English settlements in the east. They were greeted with the earnestness men in peril welcome help, and assistance was given in preparing such food as was available, while many sought rest after their exhausting journey in the outbuildings of Morrison and in the sheds that had been prepared for them. Their commander, Col. Macdonell, a thin, wiry man, with a fair complexion that gave him the name of Macdonell the Red, having seen his men disposed of, moved to the house. At the door Morrison,himself a Highlander, bade his guest welcome in the purest of Argyllshire Gaelic, and produced his bottle. After the glass had passed round, Macdonell said, “We have come far to have a tilt with the Yankees: will we be sure to meet them?”
“That you will,” answered Morrison, “they are within four miles of you and will pay us a visit, maybe, the morn.”
“Ha! That news does me more good than your dram. When there is fighting to be done, a Highlandman’s blood runs faster. Get us some supper ready, and while we wait I’ll find out what has been done. Is there none of the General’s staff here?”
“Not an officer: they are all busy at the making of barricades; but here is an Indian with a longer head than any of them, and who can speak good English, which, however, is not to be compared with our mother-language.”
Resuming the use of the despised tongue—for he scorned to give English the name of language—Morrison introduced Hemlock, and drawing him to a corner of the hearth, Macdonell plied him with questions. The Indian, using the ramrod of his musket, drew a plan of the country in the ashes at their feet, explaining how the Americans were encamped a few miles farther up the river and that to get to Montreal they must go down the road that followed its north bank. To prevent him, General deWatteville had caused the numerousgullies of creeks where they emptied into the Chateaugay, to be protected by breastworks of fallen trees, behind which the British would contest their advance. Six of these gullies had been so prepared. In rear of them, was the main line of defence, placed where the ground was favorable, and strengthened by breastworks and two small cannon.
“Aye, aye!” exclaimed Macdonell, “all very well if the Americans keep to the road: but what are we to do should they try to flank us?”
The Indian’s face darkened as he whispered, “deWatteville is a good man but he is an Old World soldier who knows nothing about bush-fighting. He would not believe me, when I told them there were bush-whackers in the Yankee army who could march to his rear through the woods.”
“That they could!” agreed the Colonel, “and where would he be then? And what good would his six lines of barricades be? My own lads today came over ground where regulars would have been bogged. Then the river can be forded opposite this house. Could the Yankees get to this ford?”
Hemlock said they could, when Macdonell answered he would see to it that preparations were made to checkmate such a move. Finding Hemlock acute and thoroughly acquainted with the field of operations, the Highlander’s heart warmed to him as one of like soldierly instincts as his own. Uncontaminated by the prejudice of race commonto old residents, he had no feeling against the red-men, and when supper was ready he insisted on Hemlock’s sitting beside him, and in treating him as his equal. As the evening wore on, officers from the neighboring encampments dropped in to exchange greetings with the new-comers, and an orderly brought instructions from the General. When Hemlock left to join his band in their vigils along the enemy’s lines, he felt he had not passed so happy an evening for a dozen of years.
The night passed quietly and in the morning the enemy showed no disposition to move, so that the preparations for their reception went on, and the troops worked all day, the woods re-echoing the sound of their axes as they felled trees to roll into heaps to form rude breastworks. In the afternoon General de Watteville rode up and carefully inspected all that had been done, and returned to his quarters satisfied, and altogether unwitting that the attack was to be made from another direction in a few hours.
The day had been cloudy, cheerless, and cold, and as it faded, rain began to fall. The men sought such cover and warmth as they could find and the officers assembled to spend the night in carousing. So raw, dark, and uninviting was it that not one in the British camp supposed the enemy would be astir. But they were. At sunset, 1500 men left the American camp, marched down to the river, forded the rapids, and began theirmarch down the south bank with the intent of capturing the ford at Morrison’s at daylight.
Next morning, the eventful 26th October, 1813, the Forsyths, unsuspicious of what was passing under the woods around them, were at breakfast, when the door was dashed in and Hemlock appeared, dripping wet. “I want a messenger to go to Macdonell to tell him the Americans are on their way to him,” he shouted.
“Confound them,” exclaimed Forsyth, “I’ll gang at ance.”
“An’ leave us twa women bodies oor lane?” complained his wife, “No, no, you maun bide, an’ proteck us.”
Hemlock was disconcerted. “Maggie,” he appealed, “won’t you go? Take the canoe and you will be at the ford in a few minutes.”
“Yes,” she responded, with quiet decision, “and what am I to say?”
“Tell the Colonel that the Americans in strength are marching through the woods on this side of the river, intending to surprise him and capture his position. Their advance will be on him in half an hour. Say to him, to send over men to meet them and I will join with my band. I go to watch them.” Without another word, he left and rushed back into the forest.
Maggie stepped lightly to where the canoe was moored, loosened the rope, and paddled down the river with all the strength she had. When itstruck the bank at Morrison’s she was glad to see so many astir and hastened to the door. “You, Maggie, at this early hour,” cried Mrs Morrison, “naething wrang I hope?”
“I must see the Colonel,” she said, catching for breath.
“There he is,” said Mrs Morrison, pointing to an officer engaged in reading a letter by the fire.
Maggie repeated Hemlock’s message. Macdonell listened with sparkling eyes, and when she had done said, “Thank you, my bonnie lass, you have done the King a service, and when the Yankees come they will find us ready to gie their lang nebs a smell o’ oor claymores.”
Hastening out, he gave his orders in quick succession, and with surprising alacrity for a volunteer force, the men fell in. Two companies were soon complete. “Now, Captain Bruyére, if your men do as well as you will yourself all will be well; and for you, Captain Daly, I know by long experience what a loyal Irishman is. Hold your ground until I get up to you with the other companies.”
The men quietly descended the bank and plunged into the river, which took them nearly to the middle, for owing to the recent rains it was deep. Gaining the opposite bank, they were swallowed up in the woods. Gazing over the tree-tops, which looked peaceful in the calm of a dull, moist, autumnal day, Maggie wondered what was going on beneath their cover—wished she could see the advancingAmericans and the men who had just gone to meet them. There was an interval of suspense. Then, suddenly, there was a sharp volley and the quiet air became filled with shouts, and yells, and cries of frightened men. All at once there burst from the bush on to the river bank, a good way up, a string of habitants, flying in terror, their blue tuques streaming behind them, and few of them having muskets, for they had thrown them away to aid their flight. “The cowardly loons,” muttered Macdonell, “it would serve them right to give them a taste of shot.” On reaching the ford, they tumultuously dashed in. As the foremost came up the bank the Colonel demanded an explanation. They had been surprised by the unexpected appearance of a great host of Americans and ran to save themselves. Attention, however, was now attracted from the fugitives by the recommencement of the firing, which was sharp and continuous, relieved by the yells and whoops of the Indians.
“Hasten!” shouted Macdonell to the troops who were lining up, “do you not hear the firing? Our comrades need us.”
The head of the column had reached the water’s edge, when there was a burst of cheering. “That’s our lads,” said the Colonel, “they must have won the day. Halt! We will not seek to share the credit of their victory.” In a few minutes a body of the Fencibles reappeared, with several prisoners and bearing a few wounded men. Their reportwas that they had encountered the advance guard of the American brigade, which, although elated at the rout of the outpost of habitants, fled at the first fire. The Colonel ordered the men to retire and wait behind the breastworks that commanded the ford. “It is not likely,” he remarked to his adjutant, “that the Americans will now attack us, seeing their design to surprise us has miscarried.” Half an hour later, Hemlock arrived with his braves, at whose girdles hung several fresh scalps. He told Macdonell that the Americans had given up their intention of gaining the ford and had gone into camp nearly two miles above, in a grove beside the river. Seeing how slight was the prospect of more fighting on that side of the river, he was going to join the main-body. On hearing this reassuring news, Maggie slipped away to her canoe and paddled homewards.
On coming in sight of the shanty she was amazed and alarmed by the change that had taken place in her short absence. American soldiers were clustered around it, and a few horses picketed. Fearing the worst, she drew near. Seated by the fire were several officers warming themselves and drying their clothes, and with whom her mother was in altercation.
“Come to free us, say ye? What wad ye free us frae?”
“From the tyranny of European monarchy,” answered an officer with a smile.
“It maun be a licht yoke that we never felt. Mak us free, dootless, like that blackamoor servant that’s cooking yer breakfast.”
“Waal, no,” said another officer, “yer a furriner, ye know, but yer white.”
“A foreigner!” exclaimed Mrs Forsyth, “hae I lived to be ca’ed in my ain house, a foreigner! I belang to nae sic trash. Manners maun be scarce whaur you come frae, my man.”
“That’s all right, old woman; the old man will understand how it is. We have come to make you independent.”
“Auld man! Auld woman! God forgie you for haein’ nae respeck for grey hairs. My guid man, sir, taks nae stock in ye or your fine words. Nicht and mornin’ does he pray for King George an’ that his throne may be preserved. You’re a set o’ land-loupers, wha hae nae business here an’ its my howp afore nicht you may be fleein’ back to whaur ye cam frae.”
“Canada folk are not all like you.”
“Ay, that they are. There’s no an’ Auld Country family from here to the Basin that winna gie you the back o’ their hand, an’ no ane that wadna suner lose a’ than come unner yer rule.”
Afraid that further controversy might result unpleasantly, Maggie left her attitude of listening outside the door and entered. One or two of the younger officers rose and bowed; the others stared.
“Oh, Maggie, I wish you had stayed where you were,” said her mother, “you have come into the lion’s den, for your father is no maister here.”
“I am sure, mother, these gentlemen will not harm us.”
“Not at all,” interrupted one of the strangers, “and in a few hours we will leave you alone again.”
“The sicht o’ your backs will be maist welcome,” remarked Mrs Forsyth.
“Where is father?”
“Helpin’ thae Yankees to get a haud o’ his ain property. They took him oot to get fodder for their horses.”
There was a bustle outside and presently two soldiers carried in a young lad, in lieutenant’s uniform, whose white face told that he had been wounded. They were about to lay him down in front of the fire, when Mrs Forsyth darted forward: “No, na; dinna pit the puir chiel on the floor; tak him to my ain bed,” and she helped to place him there. Two surgeons took off his coat and shirt, when the wound appeared; a bullet had gone through the fleshy part beneath the arm-pit, causing some loss of blood without doing serious injury. When the surgeons said he would recover, Mrs Forsyth’s face beamed and she bustled about to get the requisites needed to clean and dress the wound, while, under her orders, Maggie made gruel to revive his strength. While thus engaged, officers came and went, and the house was never withoutseveral of them. There came a tall, square-built man, whose shoulder-straps indicated high rank, and his quiet, resolute face one accustomed to command. He advanced to the bed where the wounded lad lay, asked a few questions, and spoke encouragingly to the sufferer.
“It is too bad that Dingley, of all our corps, should have had this luck,” remarked an officer.
“Yes, and to no purpose. I fear the miscarriage of our plan to surprise the ford will lead to the abandonment of the purpose to capture Montreal.”
“There is not a man in the army that does not wish we were in winter-quarters. To fight in such a country at this season is more than flesh and blood can stand.”
“Yet to go back will disgrace us,” said the superior officer, who withdrew.
“Who is that?” asked Maggie of one of the surgeons.
“That is Col. Purdy, and if he had been in command we would not have spent all summer doing nothing and come here in the end of October.”
“Yet he failed in capturing the ford,” remarked Maggie, with a sparkle in her eye.
“He could not help the weather and the dark night that kept us standing in the woods until daybreak. After all, we would have surprised the guard and taken the ford had it not been for somebody, perhaps a traitor among ourselves, who carried word of our coming.”
“Maybe,” said Maggie demurely, “but you did not get the ford and what can you do now?”
“Nothing, I am afraid. The failure of our brigade to carry the key of the enemy’s position may cause the General to give up the enterprise.”
On leaving Morrison’s, Hemlock hurried to the front, followed by his braves. As he reached each successive line of defence he paused briefly to scan it, but when he came to that which had been entrusted to the Indians, and which was within sight of the front, he halted to fraternize with his brethren and share their fare, for it was now noon. The urgent requests of the chiefs, that he should stay with them and aid in the threatened conflict, he declined, saying he wanted to be with the first line, and his dusky comrades afterwards recalled that he parted with more than usual ceremony and that when he and his small band gained the eminence on the other side of the ravine, he looked back and waved his hand in farewell. A tramp of a few minutes brought him to the advance line, where he found men still busy felling and rolling trees to strengthen the abattis. Inquiring for the officer in command he came upon him, a short, broad-shouldered man, engaged in swearing at one of his men for neglect of duty. On seeing the Indians he turned, and with hearty gesture grasped Hemlock’s extended hand. “Ha, bon camarado, have you come to help?”
“Will there be a fight?” asked Hemlock.
“Yes, yes; stand on this stump and you can see for yourself.”
With cautious movement Hemlock scanned the scene. In front of the abattis there was a narrow clearing that skirted the river bank as far as the view extended. On the road and adjoining fields were masses of American troops, with the smoke rising from the fires at which they were cooking dinner. “You see, Hemlock,” said Colonel deSalaberry, “they may make an attack any minute. Those mounted officers looking at us from the road are the General and his staff.”
Hemlock gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Where will we stand?” he asked.
“Get into the woods and cover our flank,” deSalaberry replied. Without another word, Hemlock motioned to his men and led the way to where the line of defence ended in the bush. Here he spread out his men and awaited the onset. Half an hour passed when the roll of drums was heard, and Hemlock saw a brigade falling into rank on the road. When all were in place, the column moved slowly, for the road was a canal of mud intersected by pools of water. As they approached within range the order to deploy was shouted, and the men streamed on to the clearing until a line the length of the field was formed. Then they faced round, and Hemlock heard the command to advance, when the Americans came on, a solid wallof humanity, moving with slow and steady step. Instantly, the bushy abattis, behind which the British lay, silent as the grave until now, became alive with the puffs of musket-shots and the shouts of those who fired them. On the Americans came with even step until well within blank range, when they were halted and the order given to fire by platoons. The regular roll of musketry that ensued spoke well for their nerve and discipline. The shower of bullets they sent streaming into the bush in front of them had no effect in checking the opposing fire, which was irregular but lively. It soon became apparent that firing by platoons was a waste of ammunition, a mere flinging of bullets into the tree-tops, and there was a movement in the companies in the column next the woods, which were swung forward, in order that they might gain a position which would enable them to pour a cross-fire into the British position. The men moved steadily, all the while pouring in volleys, that caused the defenders of the upper end of the British line to leave and go lower down. It was a critical moment. The British line was in danger of being flanked, and Hemlock saw its peril. He with his band were concealed in the woods that edged the clearing, and so far had not fired a shot, for Hemlock, who knew the futility of irregular troops engaging in a musketry duel with a disciplined force, had determined not to show where they were until the Americans came to closequarters. Now he saw his opportunity. Signing to his men to follow, he stealthily crept until he was close behind the American companies that were edging to flank the British line. When near upon the unsuspecting Americans, he sprang to his feet, gave the war-whoop, and fired his musket, his followers doing likewise. The Americans looked round in terrified astonishment, and saw the Indians leaping towards them with ear-piercing yells and brandishing their tomahawks. They wavered, broke rank, and fled towards their supports, who were a short distance behind. Hemlock bounded among the fleeing men and two had fallen under his hand, when a volley of bullets from the supporting column came shrieking through the air. All save one passed harmlessly over the heads of the red-men—that one struck Hemlock in the breast, and he sank upon his right knee. Alarmed at his fall, his men desisted from following the fleeing enemy, and seizing hold of him hurried into the shelter of the woods. They laid him down and were about to loosen his jacket, for he was in a faint, when there rose a burst of cheering from the British line, on seeing the success of the Indians’ diversion. The sound caught the ear of the dying chief. His eyes opened as from slumber, rolled wildly for a moment, and his breast heaved convulsively. He staggered to his feet, and lifting aloft his tomahawk, dripping with the blood of its last victim, he raised the war-whoop, suddenly stopped short,rolled unsteadily, and then fell as a pine-tree falls. An Indian knelt down beside him and raised his head while he pressed his hand on his forehead. There was no responsive throb. Hemlock was dead.
* * * * *
“I would swear that was Hemlock’s whoop,” said Morton to himself. He stood amid a group of cavalrymen who were watching intently what was going on from a field within easy view. He had followed the engagement with intelligent interest; had noted how the American infantry had advanced, deployed, formed line, and opened fire on the British position. What followed provoked him. When he saw how ineffectual the British fire was upon the American ranks, though standing in the open and within easy range, he ground his teeth in vexation. “Those militiamen could not hit a barn; a hundred regulars would have decimated the American column with half the ammunition that has been spent,” he muttered to himself. When the upper end of the American line swung forward, his thoughts changed. “Ah, they are going to fix bayonets and carry our position by assault. God help our lads.” He was mistaken; the movement was to gain a point whence to rake the British position with an enfilading fire. As he saw the Americans move forward unopposed and the British fire slacken from the bush opposite, his heart sank. “The day is lost: in five minutes the Americans will have possession of the far end ofthat bushy entrenchment, and it will be untenable.” Suddenly the war-whoop of the Indians was heard, then came their wild assault, and the flight of the Americans. “Well done, Hemlock!” exulted Morton, “no other lungs than yours could have raised that shriek and your timely move has certainly checked the attempt to flank the British position. What next?” Having ascertained so unpleasantly that the wood to their left was held by Indians, the Americans did not try again to turn the British position, and the companies that had broken in disorder were reformed and placed in rear, while the battalions in line continued to pour volleys into the bush heaps in front of them. Hampton and his staff were on horseback, watching the progress of the contest from a bit of rising ground by the river. At this juncture Morton observed him signal with his hand to some one on the other side of the river, and from that quarter, soon after, came the rattle of musketry. It did not last long and when it died away, an orderly was detached from the General’s staff and came galloping to deliver a message to Izard, who instantly gave the order to cease firing. The column fell back a few paces and the men stood in rank, awaiting orders. To Morton’s surprise, firing from the British line also ceased, and the two combatants simply looked at one another. “Can it be,” asked Morton, “that our General does not want to provoke an engagement and would be content to see the Americans leave?” The briefOctober day was drawing to an end, and still the American brigade stood immovable and there was not a sign of life along the British line. When the grey clouds began to be tinged by the setting sun, and it was apparent nothing more could be done that day, Izard received the order to fall back. As if on parade, the evolutions requisite were gone through and the column began its march to the camp, three miles in rear.
“Hillo, Morton, you seem stupefied. Lost in amaze at the gallantry of your comrades-in-arms permitting a brigade to file off under their nose without an attempt to molest them. Eh?” The voice was that of Colonel Vanderberg.
“I confess you interpret my thoughts,” answered Morton. “I am glad to see you back.”
“I have had a fatiguing day’s duty and am not yet done. I have just left the General, who instructed me to go over and see Purdy and arrange for the withdrawal of his force. Will you come with me?”
“That I will; I am tired of standing here.”
As they approached the river, Morton noted that the bank was strongly picketted by infantry and that a body of cavalry were bivouaced in a field beside the road. Stepping upon a raft that had been extemporized to form a ferry with the other side, the Colonel and Morton were landed in the midst of Purdy’s men, who were making themselves as comfortable as possible before theircampfires. They looked tired and dejected. The Colonel was told Purdy had gone to remain until morning with his outposts, as a night attack upon them was looked for. Accompanied by a soldier to show them the way they went on, now floundering thru’ marshy spots and again jumping little creeks, alternating with bits of dry bank and scrubby brush, until they emerged into a clearing. Morton caught his breath with astonishment. In front was the shanty of the Forsyths! He had had no idea it was so near. The door was open and he could see it was full of officers. Around the house were resting a strong body of troops. Col. Vanderberg pushed in and was soon in earnest conversation with Purdy, who sat smoking by the fire. Morton remained at the door and scanned the interior, which was filled by a cloud of tobacco-smoke and reeked with the odor of cooking and of steaming wet clothes. In the corner, where the bed stood, he saw Maggie leaning over a recumbent youth, whose white face and bandaged shoulder told of a wound. Morton’s heart jumped at sight of her and his lips twitched. The next moment, as he saw how gently she soothed the sufferer, a pang of jealousy succeeded, and he clenched his teeth. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him he entered and drew up behind Colonel Vanderberg, who was saying, “Then I am to tell the General from you, that you will not join him tonight.”
“Yes, tell him I cannot; that the river is too deepto ford and too wide to bridge and that it is out of the question to cross 1500 men on rafts. At daylight we will march back the way we came and join him at Spears.”
“It will be an unwelcome message, for he counted on your rejoining him tonight.”
“I care not,” bluffly retorted Purdy, “I am a soldier and know a soldier’s duty and have to think of those under me. I’ll risk no lives to humor his whims.”
“He fears a night assault upon your brigade.”
“So do I,” replied Purdy, blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke, “and would fear it more if assailed while on the march through these woods or in the endeavor to cross the river. The General should have ordered us to retire while there was daylight.”
“Ah, well, I have delivered my message and must go back with my answer. Come, Morton.”
At the sound of the familiar name Maggie looked round, and when her eyes fell on Morton, she blushed deeply. To hide her confusion from the roomful of men, she turned her back and bowed her head close to the pillow whereon lay the head of the patient. More nettled than ever, Morton started to move quickly away, when there appeared at the doorway the frail form of Mrs Forsyth. “God be gude to us, if this is no Morton. Oh but I’m gled to see you and sae will the gudeman. I went out to look for him, an’ hav’na found him, but he’ll sune be here an’, onyway, you’re going to bide wi’ us.”
“I am sorry that I cannot.”
“But ye maun. Ye dinna ken hoo yer takin’ awa’ concerned us and pit us aboot.”
“You forget I am a prisoner.”
“Prisoner! You are nae prisoner. You’re noo in oor hoose an’ you’ll just bide here an’ let thae Yankees gae awa.”
“I am afraid they would insist on taking me with them.”
“Hoots, man, I’ll haud ye. Maggie, do you ken Morton’s come?”
“Yes, mother; I saw him.”
“Weel, come ower and mak him stay an’ no gang back to be bullyragged by a wheen Yankees.”
Maggie made no reply, but turned to avoid the gaze of the Americans attracted by the scene at the door and her mother’s words. Morton also felt mortified at the situation. “Thank you, Mrs Forsyth, but I must go, and tell your husband and sons I have never forgot them and never will.” Eluding her grasp he followed Colonel Vanderberg, who stood outside the door with laughing countenance. He had not gone far when a swift step was heard behind and his name was uttered. Turning he saw Maggie, who held out her right hand. “Take this,” she said, “I may not see you—again.” There was a sob as she uttered the last word. He grasped what she held to him and before he could say a word she had turned and fled back to the house. Morton held the object up to the lightof the nearest camp-fire. It was his signet-ring.
More perplexed than ever, angry with Maggie and angry with himself, he braced himself and followed the Colonel in silence until the camp was reached. Supper awaited them, and that disposed of, the Colonel, wearied with his day’s exertion, flung himself on the ground and fell asleep. Morton tried in vain to do likewise.
At daybreak the army was astir and the expectation of the men was an order to renew the assault upon the British position. No such order came, and it was wearing well into the forenoon when the commanding-officers were summoned to attend at the General’s tent to hold a council-of-war. Among others Colonel Vanderberg went. Morton watched eagerly his return, and when he came his questioning eyes told what his tongue, from courtesy, would not ask. “Well, Morton, you would like to know what has been decided upon, and as it is no secret, I will tell you. The campaign has been abandoned and the army goes back to the States to go into winter-quarters. We marched into Canada to co-operate with Wilkinson. Last night the General received a despatch that he had not yet left Sackett’s Harbor, while we supposed he was now steering his triumphant way down the St Lawrence, and might even be at the mouth of the Chateaugay waiting for us. It was argued that, as Wilkinson had not moved, and it was uncertain if he would, nothing was to be gained byour army going on, for, without the flotilla, we could not cross the St Lawrence to take Montreal.”
“And what of the disgrace of retiring before an enemy whom you have burnt powder with for an afternoon?”
“There you have us, Morton. I urged that, before we fell back, the honor of our flag required our routing the enemy in front of us, but the General showed that he has had all along complete information of its position and strength, obtained from spies and deserters—that there are six lines of wooden breastworks, held by Indians and light troops, and that only after storming them would we come in face of the main position, where the regulars are entrenched with cannon and commanded by Sir George Prevost in person. When there was nothing to be gained, it was asked, what was the use of further fighting? The miscarriage of the attempt under Purdy to flank the enemy’s position discouraged our officers, who, altho’ they do not say it, want to get away from this miserable condition of cold and wet and mud.”
“So we go back whence we came?” remarked Morton moodily, as he thought of the stable at Chateaugay.
“My dear fellow, bear up; I will do my best to have you exchanged.”
Morton shook his head as he said, “I am not held as a prisoner of war.”
The Colonel bit his lip. “I have not told you all.The carrying of the decision of the council to Wilkinson was entrusted to me.”
“And so you leave me!” exclaimed Morton sadly.
“I start after dinner, and cheer up, man; we will have a good one as a farewell feast.” Then, with evident hesitation, the Colonel went on, as delicately as possible, to show Morton that he had better withdraw his parole and go again under a guard. Removed from his protection, it would not be safe to move among men soured by an unfortunate campaign. Morton assented and expressed his thanks for advice he knew it pained the Colonel to give. Dinner over, the Colonel’s horse was brought, and with a warm grasp of the hand he bade Morton good-bye, leapt into the saddle, and galloped out of sight. Morton saw him not again.
In a despondent mood Morton turned away and sought the guard-tent, when he gave himself up to the officer-of-the-day, who accepted his surrender as a matter of course. The soldiers took little notice of him, being in high spirits at the prospect of going back to the States and busily engaged in the preparations to leave. That afternoon part of the baggage-train left and went floundering along the muddy road to Four Corners. As evening drew nigh, the rain, accompanied by a raw east wind, recommenced, flooding the level clearances upon which the tents were pitched and making everybody miserable. The captain of the guard sought shelter from the blast and the water by causingthe tents he controlled to be pitched on the slope of a hollow scooped out by a creek, and in one of them Morton lay down along with seven soldiers. Sleep soon came to relieve him of his depression in mind and discomfort of body, and the hours sped while he was so unconscious that he did not hear when his companions left to take their turn on duty and those they relieved took their places in the tent. His first deep sleep was over when he felt that some furtive hand was being passed over the canvas to find the opening. When the flap was drawn aside, so dark was it that he could not distinguish who stood there. He supposed it was some belated private seeking cover from the pelting rain and he was about to turn and resume his slumber when a flint was struck and the tent was lit for a moment by its sparks. Somebody lighting a pipe, he said, too drowsy to look. A minute afterwards he felt that the curtain of the tent where his head lay was being cautiously lifted and soon a hand reached in, touched his face, and then catching the collar of his coat began pulling. He made a motion to resist, when a voice whispered, “Hemlock.” In a flash he realized he was about to be rescued, and, guided by the hand that grasped him, slowly crept out. No sooner was he upon his feet, than he felt men were gliding past him into the tent. All at once there was a sound of striking, as of knives being driven into the bodies of the sleeping inmates, a slight commotion, a fewgroans, and then all was still. Morton’s flesh crept, as he guessed at the horrid work in which the Indians were engaged. So intensely dark was it, that he could see nothing. There was a slight shuffling of feet and he was grasped by the arm on either side and hurried forward. He knew they were following the course of the ravine, for he could hear the wash of the creek. Suddenly his conductors came to a halt and there was a pause, until a faint chirrup was heard. Then the bank was climbed and, emerging on a clearance, Morton saw the tents of the American camp some distance to his left, lit up by the smoldering fires that burned dimly between the rows. Looking round, he for the first time saw his companions, who were, as he suspected, a band of Indians. Taking advantage of every available cover the Indians glided, in single file, across the bit of open that intervened between where they stood and the bush. When its shelter was gained, they halted on a dry knoll, and squatted, when they began to giggle and to chatter in their native tongue, plainly exulting over the success of their raid. Morton tried to communicate with them, but found they could not speak English, and the only word they uttered which he recognized was “Hemlock,” altho’ that great chief was not among them. One of them could speak a little French, which, however, Morton did not understand. When daylight began to creep in upon the darkness, they became alert, andas soon as it was clear enough to see where they were going they started; Morton had no idea in what direction. All he knew was, that their course led them over a swampy country intersected by stony ridges, and that had it not been that the leaders of the file broke a path he could never have followed. The exertion was exhausting and he would have succumbed at the end of the first hour had it not been that the spirit of freedom elated him, and the knowledge that every mile he overtook increased the distance between him and the hated bondage from which he had escaped spurred him on. On the edge of an apparently limitless swamp they paused before entering upon it to have a smoke. It was apparent that they carried no food. Morton sank upon a pile of leaves that had drifted against a log and stretched his wearied legs. Refreshed by the rest, he faced the swamp with courage, soon finding, however, that, without the help of the Indians, he could have made little headway. With the light step and agility of cats they stepped over quaking surfaces and sprang from log to log until solid land was reached, and with it came the sound of rushing water. Escaping from the brush, a broad river, dashing impetuously over a rocky channel, burst in view. Following its bank in single file, Morton saw it grew wider, until it expanded into a lake, when he knew it was the St Lawrence. On coming opposite the promontory that marked the inletof the river from the lake, the Indians eagerly scrutinized it. Gathering some damp leaves they made a smoke. The signal was seen by those opposite, for a long-boat was launched from under the trees and rapidly approached them. Morton’s heart leapt with joy when he distinguished that the steersman had a red-coat on, and as the boat drew nearer and he could make out the ruddy countenances of the crew, frank and open in expression, and catch the sound of their hearty English speech, he could not resist the impulse to swing his hat and wake the echoes with a lusty cheer. The Indians grinned and one clapped him on the back in high approval.
The corporal in charge of the boat informed Morton that he belonged to the garrison of Coteau-du-lac and was, for the week, with the party on the point, to guard the south channel. There were so many Indians that the boat had to leave part for a second trip. On landing at the point Morton was warmly welcomed by the officer in charge, and given the best he had, which proved to be fried pork and biscuit. At noon the boat that daily brought supplies from Coteau arrived, and in it Morton with the Indians embarked. As soon as he stepped ashore, he made for the commander’s quarters and was shown into the presence of Col. Lethbridge. On announcing who he was, the Colonel welcomed him as one from the dead and impatiently demanded to hear when and how he had escaped.When he came to tell of the exploit of the preceding night, and that the Indians who had performed in it were waiting in the barrack-yard, the Colonel thumped the table and swore each man of them would take home all the tobacco and pork he could carry. Going out to see them before they left, Morton learned through an interpreter of Hemlock’s death and that his rescue was in fulfilment of an order he had left. They were going to Oka to join the party who were on the way from the Chateaugay with his body, to bury it beside that of his daughter, and hold a funeral lodge. Morton was deeply moved. “Faithful soul,” he exclaimed, “would to heaven he had lived that I might have shown him my gratitude.” Applying to the paymaster he obtained an advance, and in parting with the Indians pressed a big Mexican dollar into the hand of each of them.
Colonel Lethbridge insisted on Morton’s being his guest, and after leaving him in his bedroom sent his servant to wait upon him, and who brought a fresh suit of clothes. Morton was the hero of the garrison, and when he appeared at the mess-table, so many complimentary speeches were made, so many songs sung, and so many toasts drank that it was nigh midnight when he got to bed. He rose next morning intent on entering harness again, and over a late breakfast discussed with Col. Lethbridge as to how he could rejoin his regiment, which had been called to the Niagara frontier, and it wasagreed he should go by the next convoy, always provided Wilkinson did not come, which, after what Morton reported of Hampton’s army returning to the States, Lethbridge doubted. Each day tidings of Wilkinson’s leaving the shelter of Sackett’s Harbor had been looked for, and the feeling was that unless he left within a week he would not come at all, for the season was now well-advanced, and already on several mornings had ice formed round boats while lying at Coteau. Col. Scott had been sent to Cornwall to superintend the preparations there, and Lethbridge had taken his place at the less important point. The following week the unexpected happened—late one afternoon a gunboat came down the lake under press of canvas, with word that Wilkinson had started—was descending the river with a flotilla of 300 boats bearing 7000 men. A few days of excitement and wearing suspense succeeded, and then, came word of the battle of Crystler’s Farm—how a strong brigade of Americans had landed at the head of the Long Sault rapids to clear the north bank of the batteries the British had planted to prevent the flotilla descending and been routed by General Boyd. Treading upon the heels of the news of that decisive victory came the announcement that Wilkinson had abandoned his undertaking and had gone back to the United States by sailing into Salmon river with his beaten army. The campaign was ended for the season, and troopswere ordered into winter-quarters. The day the news reached Coteau of Wilkinson’s flight to French Mills, a string of boats came up loaded with military stores for Upper Canada and a few troops. To Morton’s astonishment, among them was the detachment he had conducted to the Chateaugay. The camp there having been broken up, they were on their way to join the regiment, and hoped to reach it before navigation closed. Gladly Morton resumed command and six days later reported at Niagara.
After a night of excitement from wild alarms, the Americans left the Forsyth household at daylight, leaving not one behind, for even the wounded officer they carried with them in a litter. Utterly worn out the family sought rest, and it was late in the day when the father arose, and leaving the others, sleeping, went out to see what of his property had been left. The more closely he examined the more fully the unwelcome fact was forced upon him, that he was left destitute, and when he came upon the black head of his cow, which the soldiers had slaughtered for beef, he sat down in a despairing mood. “It’s no for mysel’ I’m troubled,” he exclaimed, “but for my ailin’ wife and puir Maggie! To face a Canadian winter wi’ a bare loof is awfu.” And he gave way to a fit of despondency. “This winna do,” he said with a rueful look at the devastation around him, “a stout heart to a stey brae, and wi’ God’s help, I’ll mak the best o’t.” When Maggie sometime afterwards appeared at the door he was industriously laboring to bring his surroundings into order. “Weel, lass, an’ hoo are ye after oor big pairty?”
“No so ill; but, father, what are we to do, there’s no a bite in the house? The cellar is rookit as clean as if a pack of wolves had visited it.”
The old man approached and taking his daughter by the hand drew her to the seat by the door-step. “Maggie, I ken ye hae a brave spirit and can bear the worst. I am a ruined man. The Yankees have eaten us oot o’ house an’ hold. The very boards o’ the byre hae been torn awa’ to licht their fires. Oor coo, the young beasts, the pigs, hae a’ been eaten. There’s no even a chuckie left.”
“O but there is,” interrupted Maggie, “see to Jenny Tapknot over there,” pointing smilingly thro’ tears to a favorite chicken that had eluded the soldiers and was eyeing them from a branch.
“Weel, weel, we hae one leevin’ thing left us. O’ a’ oor crop there is naething to the fore but the unthreshed wheat, an’ mickle o’t is useless from the sojers using it to lie on.”
“Was it right, father, for them to take your property without paying you?”
“Pay me! The thocht o’ paying a subject o’ the King never entered their heids. Micht is richt wi’ them. What we are to do is no just clear to me yet, but we’ll trust in Him wha has never failed to supply oor bite an’ sup. Only, Maggie, ye maun for yer mither’s sake put a cheerfu’ face on’t an’ mak the best o’t.”
“Hoot, father, what gars ye doot me? We hae aye been provided for an’ sae will we yet, says theauld sang. You take the canoe an’ go down to Morrison’s an’ see what you can get there to keep us going until the morn, an’ while you’re away I’ll red the house an’ hae a’ ready for supper gin mither wakens.”
With brightened face and hopeful step the old man did as asked and did not return empty-handed. Over the frugal meal the situation was discussed and both the husband and daughter were glad to see that the calamity that had overtaken them so far from overwhelming Mrs Forsyth, roused her, and revived the active and hopeful spirit that had been a feature in her character before ailments and age had overtaken her. Long and earnest was the consultation by the fireside that night, and many a plan proposed to tide over the long months that must intervene before another harvest could be reaped. As bed-time drew near, the father lifted down the book, and after they had sung the 23rd psalm, he read the 17th chapter of First Kings, and poured out his heart in thanksgiving for the unnumbered blessings bestowed upon him and his, and, above all, for the departure of the invader.
Two days afterwards, when it had become assured that Hampton was in leisurely retreat whence he came, those of the militia, at Baker’s camp, who wished were given leave to go to their homes, and the Forsyth lads returned. They were much exasperated at the plundered state of their home, and more provoked than before at the policy whichpermitted the enemy to journey back over 24 miles of Canadian territory without attempt to harass him. Leaving the scanty pay they had received as soldiers, it was arranged they should go lumbering for the winter, their wages to be sent home as they got them. The winter proved a hard one. The presence of so large a body of troops had consumed much of the produce the settlers needed for themselves, and although they had been paid what they considered at the time good prices they now found it difficult to procure what they wanted from Montreal. The result to the Forsyths was, that their neighbors were unable to give them much help and had it not been that the miller at the Basin gave credit, they would have been sometimes in actual want. Despite the bareness of the cupboard, the winter was a happy one: the very effort to endure and make the best of their hard lot conducing to cheerfulness. When the snow began to melt, the sons returned, and the new clearing at which the father had worked all winter was made ready for seed, so that more land than before was put under a crop. The pinch was worst in July and until the potatoes were fit to eat. After that there was rude plenty and an abundant harvest was reaped.
With returning comfort Mrs Forsyth began to fail. Whether it was the effects of the lack of usual food, or the strain to help the family having been beyond her strength, signified little. Withthe coming of the snow she began to lose strength and, as her husband saw with deep sorrow, “to dwine awa.” She accepted her lot uncomplainingly, studying how to give least trouble, and spending her days between her bed and the easy chair by the fireside, generally knitting, for she said she hoped to leave them a pair of stockings apiece. The New Year had passed and the days were lengthening when it was plain her rest was near.
It was a beautiful day when she asked that her chair be moved so that she could see out at the window. The brilliant sunlight fell on the snow that shrouded the winding course of the Chateaugay and flecked the trees, while a blue haze hung in the distance that prophesied of coming spring. “A bonnie day,” she remarked.
“Ay,” replied Maggie, “warm enough to be a sugar day.”
“It’s ower fine to last and there will be storms and hard frost afore the trees can be tapped,” said Mrs Forsyth, “an’ I’ll no be here to help.”
“Dinna say that, mither; the spring weather will bring you round.”
“Na, na, my bairn. The robin’s lilt will no wauken me, nor will my een again see the swelling bud, but through the mercy o’ my God I trust they will be lookin’ on the everlasting spring o’ the bidin’ place o’ his people.”
“Oh, mither: I canna bear the thocht o’ parting wi’ you.”
“It’s natural to feel sae; my ain heart-strings were wrung when my mither deed, an’ yet I see noo it was for the best. I have become a cumberer o’ the grund, unable to labor even for an hour a day in the vineyard, and sae the Maister o’t is goin’ to gie me the rest o’ which, lang since, I got frae His hand the arles. Ae thing ye maun promise me, Maggie, and that is ye maun never leev your faither.”
“What makes you think sae o’ me, mother? I hav’na even a thocht o’ leevin’ him.”
“I ken ye hav’na a thocht the noo o’ sic a thing, but the day will come when you micht—when your love for anither would incline you to forget your duty. Sweet the drawing o’ heart to heart in the spring o’ youth, an’ the upspringing, when you least expec’ it, o’ the flow’r o’ love. The peety is, sae mony are content with the flow’r an’ pu’ it an’ let the stem wither. Your faither an’ I werna o’ that mind. The flow’r grew into a bauld stalk in the simmer o’ affection, an’ noo we reap the harvest. It’s no like Scotch folk to open their mous on sic maitters, but I may tell you, my lassie, that sweet an’ warm as was oor love when your faither cam a coortin’, it’s nae mair to be compared to oor love since syne an’ to this minute, than the licht o’ lightnin’ is to the sunshine. I thocht to hae tended him in his last days, to hae closed his een, an’ placed the last kiss on his cauld lips, but it’s no to be, an’ ye maun promise me to perform what your mither wad hae dune had she lived.”
“I promise, mother; I promise never to leave him.”
“Weel does he deserve a’ you can dae for him; he’s puir, he’s hamely in looks, he’s no sae quick in thocht or speech as mony; but he is what mony great an’ rich an’ smairt men are not—an honest man, wha strives in a quiet way to do his duty by his fellowman an’ his Maker.”
“What makes you speak so, mother? I am sure I never gave you cause to think I’d leave the family.”
“Your brothers will gang their ain gate by-and-by an’ their wives micht na want to hae the auld man at their ingle; only o’ you may I ask that whither you go he shall go an’ drink o’ your cup an’ eat o’ your bread. Dinna marry ony man unless sure he will be kind to your faither an’ let you do a dochter’s duty by him.”
“I hav’na met ony man, mother, that will hae me, except auld Milne.”
“Dinna mak fun o’ me, Maggie; you ken what I mean. The lad Morton will come some day—.”
“Wheesht, mother: he’s nothing to me.”
“I ken different: you loe him deep an’ true an’ he loes you. Whether he will pit pride o’ family an’ station aside to ask you to be his wife some wad doot, but I div’na. He’ll be back, an’ when he does dinna forget what I have said.”
The heavy step of the father was here heard outside; the door opened and he came in. Drawinga chair beside his wife he sat down, and, without uttering a word, surveyed her wasted and furrowed face with tender gaze. She returned his affectionate look and placed her hand in his. As she looked at them, sitting in the afternoon sunshine with clasped hands, and that radiant expression of mutual love, Maggie’s heart, already full, was like to burst. She hastened out and falling beneath a tree wept bitterly.
* * * * *
Next morning when they awoke the sad truth became apparent, that the mother of the family had had a change for the worse in her sleep. Her mind wandered and her strength had completely left. The only one she recognized was her husband, and when he spoke she smiled. The spells of unconsciousness grew longer as the day wore on and towards evening it could be seen her last was near. As often happens in the Canadian winter, a pet day had been followed by a storm. A piercing blast from the west filled the air with drift and sent the frozen snow rattling on the window-panes. They were all gathered round her bed, when she woke, and her eyes wonderingly looked upon them, tried to make out what it all meant, and gave it up as hopeless. “Eh, sirs, a bonnie day,” she said, as if speaking to herself, “the westlin win’ blaws saft frae the sea an’ the bit lammies rin after their mithers on the hill-side. Sune the kye will be comin’ hame an’ after milkin’ I’ll snod mysel’, forsomebody’s comin’ to see somebody, an’ we’ll daunner doun e’e the gloamin’ by the burn. Isna he a comely lad! Stracht an’ supple, and an e’e in his heid that a bairn wad trust. Tak him? I’d gang tae the warl’s end wi’ him.... What’s that! The kirk bell. I didna think it was sae late. Sure eneuch, there’s the folk strachlin’ ower the muir an’ the laird riding on his powny.... Surely it’s growin’ mirk. Mither, tak me in your airms an’ pit me to sleep. What will you sing to me? The Flowers o’ the Forest, the nicht, mither. Kiss me noo, I’ll be a better bairn the morn an’ dae what you tell me.... Na, na, pick yer ain flowers: this poesy is for my baby brither.... Faither, dinna lift your haun’ to me: I’m sorry. I’ll no dae it again. Whaur am I?... Faither, dinna you hear me? Oh come quick an’ save me, the tide is lowpin’ fast ower the rock. There’s the boatie rowin’ to us: it’ll be here enow an’ we’ll be saved.... Did you hear that? It’s Sandy the piper come to the toun. Let’s rin an’ meet him.... I’m tired o’ daffin’ an wad hae a rest. Let’s creep into the kirk-yaird an’ sit doun by granfaither’s grave. Hoo sweet the merle sings, an’ tak tent to the corn-craik ower yonner.... Weel, weel, I canna understan’ it. His ways are no oor ways, but I’ll lippen to Him tae the end. Maggie, Maggie, whaur are ye? I’m gaun awa’, an’ I want you to rin an’ tell the goodman o’ the hoose to hae a chamber ready for me. What am I saying? God forgie me, my mind wanders; he’s had ane waitin’for me this mony a day.... I see you noo, my bairns. Guid nicht, tae we meet again.”
There was a long silence. The father rose, and closed the drooping eyelids that would never be lifted and laid down the weary head which would never move again.
One July morning Mr Forsyth was working in the field beside the river when he saw a canoe shoot in sight. It drew up to the bank and its occupant walked towards him.
“Man, it is you!” he exclaimed, grasping the extended hand. “At the first look I didna ken you. Hoo ye hae changed since last I saw you.”
“I know I have,” answered Morton, “the months since we parted have aged me more than half as many years would in ordinary course of life. The hardships of war, the strife between life and death on the battle-field, develop fast what is good or bad in a man.”
“Ye’ll hae had your share o’ the fechtin?”
“Yes; our regiment took part in all the movements in the Niagara district, and during the campaigning season there was not a week we did not exchange shots with the enemy or have to endure a toilsome march to check his plans.”
“And were you hurt at a’?”
“Nothing to speak of; scratches that did not keep me off duty over a few days. I may be thankfulto have got off so well, for many a pretty fellow will never see home again.”
“War’s a gruesome trade.”
“It is that: I have seen scenes of horror that I try to banish from my memory. The carnage at Lundy’s Lane was sickening, and the cries of the wounded for help heart-breaking, for, from the darkness and the enemy’s pressing us, we could not reach them.”
“That brither should butcher brither is awfu’ proof o’ total depravity. After a’, thae Yankees, though their ways are not oor ways, are flesh o’ oor flesh, an’ we should live aside are anither in peace.”
“In this war, at least, Mr Forsyth, they are to blame. They declared it and if ever war is justifiable it is surely one like that we have fought and won, where a people rise to defend their native land against the invader.”
“I dinna dispute you, but as I creep near to my end, my heart softens to my fellow-men o’ a’ creeds and races and I wish to see peace and good-fellowship the warld ower.”
“So do I, but sure and permanent peace is not to be won by surrender of right. It is better for all that the best blood of Canada and Britain has soaked the fields within the sound of the roar of Niagara, than that Canada should have become a conquered addition to the United States.”
“You’re richt in that: the sacrifice is sair, buttrial bitter, but a country’s independence maun be maintained. Canadians will think mair o’ their country when they see what it has cost to defend it. Noo that the war is ended, you’ll be leaving Canada?”
“That depends on what your daughter says. My regiment sails from Quebec by the end of the month.”
“What mean ye, sir, by Maggie hae’in’ aucht to dae wi’ your going?”
“Simply this, that if she will take me as her husband and you will give your consent, I shall sell my commission and remain in Canada.”
“You are surely no in earnest? What has the dochter o’ a backwoods farmer t’ dae wi’ an officer?”
“Since I landed in Canada I have had many false notions rudely torn away, and one of them is, that there is any connection between worth and station in life. I have found more to admire in the shanty than I ever did in the parlors of the Old Country.”
“That’s repeatin’ what Rabbie Burns wrote, the rank is but the guinea stamp.”
“I have proved it true: for the first time in my life I have become intimate with those whose living depends upon the labor of their hands, and my Old World notions have melted away, when I found them better than those whose boast it is they never soiled their fingers with manual toil.”
“Aye, aye; nae guid comes o’ tryin’ to escape thefirst command to fallen man, ‘in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.’”
“What say you?” asked Morton.
“To your asking Maggie? Oh, dinna speak o’t. She’s my ae ewe lamb and I canna pairt wi’ her.”
“I do not mean you should; we would go to Upper Canada together.”
The old man paused and leant upon his hoe and Morton stood respectfully behind him. After long silence he raised his head. “I canna answer you. It’s no for me to put my ain selfish will against her good; gang and let her choose for hersel’.”
“Thank you,” said Morton with emotion.
“We have had a backward spring; frost every week a maist to the middle o’ June, an’ sic cauld winds since syne that naething grows. We hae sown in hope, but I’m fearfu’ there will be little to reap. Sic a spring the auldest settler canna mind o’. Look at thae tatties! What poor spindly things they are, an’ this the first week o’ July.”
“It has not been so bad in the west.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Weel, this being the first real warm day we’ve had, I tell’t Maggie to busk hersel’ and gang and veesit the neebors, for she’s been in a sad and sorrowfu’ way since her mither deed. She said she had nae heart to veesit, but wad tak a walk alang the river and be back to mak my denner. Her brithers we expect hame every day from takin’ rafts to Montreal.”
“I’ll go and seek her,” remarked Morton, as heturned, and the old man went on hoeing. Morton had gone about a mile, when his eye caught the flutter of the linen kerchief Maggie had pinned round her neck. She did not see him and as she sauntered before him, he marked her graceful carriage, and muttered to himself, “A woman worthy to woo and win.” Unwilling to startle her by going too near, he cried “Miss Forsyth.”
She paused, turned in astonishment, and as her color came and went said, “Is it you?”
“Yes, and surely you will not shrink from me as you did when last we met.”
She held out her hand and as he pressed it, simply said, “I’m glad you’re safe and well.”
“Have you no warmer greeting for me?”
“What warmer do you deserve?”
“My deservings are nothing, but your own kind heart might plead for me.”
“Oh, dear: the conceit of some men, who think they can pick up hearts on the banks of the Chateaugay as they would acorns.”
“And what of women who pitch back rings as if they stung them?”
Maggie laughed and replied, “The gift is measured with the giver.”
“When a gift is a token of the hour of peril, what then, my lady? Is it a thing to be scorned?”
“Something to be restored to the sender when he gets out of the trap, that he may bestow it on somebody else.”
“I swear I never cared for anybody else.”
“Who asked you? If you must needs confess, you should have visited the fathers at the Basin on your way here.”
“I’m Puritan enough to desire to confess direct to the one I have offended.”
“So you have offended me!”
“You know I care for you.”
“How should I? From your many messages these last twenty months?”
Morton felt vexed and Maggie observed and enjoyed his perplexity. “Come,” she said, “it is wearing on to dinner-time and I know what soldiers’ appetites are. We had some soldier visitors who left us nothing. We will go home.”
“Not until I have said what I want to tell you,” he said warmly.
“Oh, you have something to tell me! You must have. Soldiers and hunters have always long stories to tell about themselves. Keep them until you have had some of our backwoods fare.”
“Tease me no more, Maggie; my heart is yours whether you accept it or not. That I have been neglectful and ungrateful I confess. How much I owe you I did not know until some months after I saw you.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“I owe you my life.”
“You owe it to Hemlock; not to me.”
“I know all, brave heart. I met Mrs Scott atKingston and she told me of your journey to Oka, but for which Hemlock would never have known of my peril. As she spoke, the smouldering love I had for you burst into flame and your image has never been absent from my mind an hour since. When my comrades caroused and spoke loosely, I thought of you and turned away and tried to live worthily of you.”
“You know how to praise yourself.”
“No, no, my Maggie: I speak it not in praise of myself but in proof of my devotion, for how can a man show his love for a woman better than by forcing himself to live as he knows she would wish him to do?”