The following evening, an armed schooner was lying at anchor in the road stead of Buffalo, at the southern extremity of Lake Erie, and within a mile of the American shore. It was past midnight—and although the lake was calm and unbroken as the face of a mirror, a dense fog had arisen which prevented objects at the head of the vessel from being seen from the stern. Two men only were visible upon the after-deck; the one lay reclining upon an arm chest, muffled up in a dread-nought pea jacket, the other paced up and down hurriedly, and with an air of pre-occupation. At intervals he would stop and lean over the gangway, apparently endeavoring to pierce through the fog and catch a glimpse of the adjacent shore, and, on these occasions, a profound sigh would burst from his chest.
"Sambo," he at length exclaimed, addressing the man in the pea-jacket for the first time. "I shall retire to my cabin, but fail not to call me an hour before daybreak. Our friends being all landed, there can be nothing further to detain us here, we will therefore make the best of our way back to Amherstburg in the morning."
"Yes, Massa Geral," returned the negro, yawning and half raising his brawny form from his rude couch with one hand, while he rubbed his heavy eyes with the knuckles of the other.
"How is your head to-night?" inquired the officer in a kind tone.
"Berry well, Massa Geral—but berry sleepy."
"Then sleep, Sambo; but do not fail to awaken me in time: we shall weigh anchor the very first thing in the morning, provided the fog does not continue. By the bye, you superintended the landing of the baggage—was everything sent ashore?"
"All, Massa Geral, I see him all pack in he wagon, for he Bubbalo town—all, except dis here I find in Miss Mungummery cabin under he pillow."
As he spoke, the negro quitted his half recumbent position, and drew from his breast a small clasped pocket book, on a steel entablature adorning the cover of which, were the initials of the young lady just named.
"How is it Sambo, that you had not spoken of this? The pocket book contains papers that may be of importance; and yet there is now no means of forwarding it unless I delay the schooner."
"I only find him hab an hour ago, Massa Geral, when I go to make he beds and put he cabin to rights," said the old man, in a tone that showed he felt and was pained by the reproof of his young master. "Dis here too," producing a small ivory handled penknife, "I find same time in he Gubbanor daters' bed."
Gerald extended his hand to receive it, "A penknife in the bed of the Governor's daughters!" he repeated with surprise. Ruminating a moment he added to himself, "By heavens, it must be so—it is then as I expected. Would that I had had this proof of their participation before they quitted the schooner. Very well, Sambo, no blame can attach to you—go to sleep my good fellow, but not beyond the time I have given you."
"Tankee, Massa Geral," and drawing the collar of his pea jacket close under his ears, the negro again extended himself at his full length upon the arm chest.
In the fulness of his indignation at the young ladies' duplicity, he now came to the resolution of staying the departure of the schooner yet a few hours, that he might have an opportunity of going ashore himself, presenting this undoubted evidence of their guilt, and taxing them boldly with the purpose to which it had been appropriated. Perhaps there was another secret motive which induced this determination, and that was, the opportunity it would afford him of again seeing his beloved Matilda, and delivering her pocket book with his own hand.
This resolution taken, without deeming it necessary to countermand his order to Sambo, he placed the knife in a pocket in the breast of his uniform, where he had already deposited the souvenir; and having retired to his own cabin, was about to undress himself, when he fancied he could distinguish through one of the stern windows of the schooner, sounds similar to those of muffled oars. While he yet listened breathlessly to satisfy himself whether he had not been deceived, a dark form came hurriedly, yet noiselessly, down the steps of the cabin. Gerald turned, and discovered Sambo, who now perfectly awake, indicated by his manner, he was the bearer of some alarming intelligence. His report confirmed the suspicion already entertained by himself, and at that moment he fancied he heard the same subdued sounds but multiplied in several distinct points. A vague sense of danger came over the mind of the officer, and although his crew consisted of a mere handful of men, he at once resolved to defend himself to the last, against whatever force might be led to the attack. While Sambo hastened to arouse the men, he girded his cutlass and pistols around his loins, and taking down two huge blunderbusses from a beam in the ceiling of the cabin, loaded them heavily with musket balls. Thus armed he sprang once more upon deck.
The alarm was soon given, and the preparation became general, but neither among the watch, who slumbered in the forecastle, nor those who had turned into their hammocks, was there the slightest indication of confusion. These latter "tumbled up," with no other addition to the shirts in which they had left their cots, than their trousers, a light state of costume to which those who were "boxed up" in their pea jackets and great coats on the forecastle, soon reduced themselves also—not but that the fog admitted of much warmer raiment, but that their activity might be unimpeded—handkerchiefed heads and tucked up sleeves, with the habiliments which we have named, being the most approved fighting dress in the navy.
Meanwhile, although nothing could be distinguished through the fog, the sounds which had originally attracted the notice of the officer and his trusty servant, increased, despite of the caution evidently used, to such a degree as to be now audible to all on board. What most excited the astonishment of the crew, and the suspicion of Gerald, was the exactness of the course taken by the advancing hosts, in which not the slightest deviation was perceptible. It was evident that they were guided by some one who had well studied the distance and bearing of the schooner from the shore, and as it was impossible to hope that even the fog would afford them concealment from the approaching enemy, all that was left them was to make the best defence they could. One other alternative remained it is true, and this was to cut their cable and allow themselves to drop down silently out of the course by which the boats were advancing, but as this step involved the possibility of running ashore on the American coast, when the same danger of captivity would await them, Gerald, after an instant's consideration, rejected the idea, preferring the worthier and more chivalrous dependence on his own and crew's exertions.
From the moment of the general arming, the long gun, which we have already shown to constitute the sole defence of the schooner, was brought nearer to the inshore gangway, and being mounted on an elevation, with its formidable muzzle overtopping and projecting above the low bulwarks, could in an instant be brought to bear on whatever point it might be found advisable to vomit forth its mass of wrath, consisting of grape, cannister and chain shot. On this gun, indeed, the general expectation much depended; for the crew, composed of sixteen men only, exclusive of petty officers, could hope to make but a poor resistance, despite all the resolution they might bring into the contest, against a squadron of well-armed boats, unless some very considerable diminution in the numbers and efforts of these latter should be made by "Old Sally," before they actually came to close quarters. The weakness of the crew was in a great degree attributable to the schooner having been employed as a cartel—a fact which must moreover explain the want of caution, on this occasion, on the part of Gerald, whose reputation for vigilance, in all matters of duty, was universally acknowledged. It had not occurred to him that the instant he landed his prisoners, his vessel ceased to be a cartel, and therefore a fit subject for the enterprise of his enemies, or the probability is, that in the hour in which he had landed them, he would again have weighed anchor, and made the best of his way back to Amherstburg.
"Stand by your gun, men—steady," whispered the officer, as the noise of many oars immediately abreast, and at a distance of not more than twenty yards, announced that the main effort of their enemies was about to be made in that quarter. "Depress a little—there, you have her—now into them—fire."
Fiz-z-z-z, and a small pyramid of light rose from the breech of the gun, which sufficed, during the moment it lasted, to discover three boats filled with armed men, advancing immediately opposite, while two others could be seen diverging, apparently one towards the quarter, the other towards the bows of the devoted little vessel. The crew bent their gaze eagerly over her side to witness the havoc they expected to ensue among their enemies. To their surprise and mortification there was no report. The advancing boats gave three deriding cheers.
"D—n my eyes, if I didn't say she would miss fire, from having her breech unkivered last night," shouted the man who held the match, and who was no other than Tom Fluke. "Quick, here—give us a picker!"
A picker was handed to him, by one who also held the powder-horn for priming.
"It's no use," he pursued, throwing away the wire and springing to the dock. "She's a spike in the touch-hole, and the devil himself wouldn't get it out now."
"A spike!—what mean you?" eagerly demanded Gerald.
"It's too true, Mr. Grantham," said the boatswain, who had flown to examine the touch-hole, "there is a great piece of steel in it, and for all the world like a woman's bodkin, or some such sort of thing."
"Ah! it all comes o' that wench that was here on deck last night," muttered the helmsman, who had succeeded Sambo on duty the preceding night. "I thought I see her fiddlin' about the gun when the chase was made after the Yankee, although I didn't think to say nothin' about it when you axed Tom Fluke about Sal's apron."
Whatever conjecture might have arisen with others, there was no time to think of, much less to discuss it—the boats were already within a few yards of the vessel.
"Steady, men—silence!" commanded Gerald, in a low tone. "Since she has failed us, we must depend upon ourselves. Down beneath the bulwarks and move not one of you until they begin to board; then let each man single his enemy and fire; the cutlass must do the rest."
The order was obeyed. Each moment brought the crisis of action nearer: the rowers had discontinued their oars, but the bows of the several boats could be heard obeying the impetus already given them, and dividing the water close to the vessel.
"Now then, Sambo," whispered the officer. At that moment a torch was raised high over the head of the negro and his master. Its rays fell upon the first of the three boats, the crews of which were seen standing up with arms outstretched to grapple with the schooner. Another instant, and they would have touched. The negro dropped his light.
Gerald pulled the trigger of his blunderbuss, aimed into the very centre of the boat. Shrieks, curses and plashings as of bodies falling in the water, succeeded; and in the confusion occasioned by the murderous fire, the first boat evidently fell off.
"Again, Sambo," whispered the officer. A second time the torch streamed suddenly in air, and the contents of the yet undischarged blunderbuss spread confusion, dismay and death, into the second boat.
"Old Sal herself couldn't have done better: pity he hadn't a hundred of them," growled Tom Fluke, who, although concealed behind the bulwarks, had availed himself of a crevice near him, to watch the effect produced by the formidable weapons.
There was a momentary indecision among the enemy, after the second destructive fire; it was but momentary. Again they advanced, and closing with the vessel, evinced a determination of purpose, that, left little doubt as to the result. A few sprang into the chains and rigging, while others sought to enter by her bows; but the main effort seemed to be made at her gangway, at which Gerald had stationed himself with ten of his best men, the rest being detached to make the best defence they could, against those who sought to enter in the manner above described.
Notwithstanding the great disparity of numbers, the little crew of the schooner had for some time a considerable advantage over their enemies. At the first onset of these latter, their pistols had been discharged, but in so random a manner as to have done no injury—whereas the assailed, scrupulously obeying the order of their commander, fired not a shot until they found themselves face to face with an enemy; the consequence of which was that every pistol-ball killed an American, or otherwise placed himhors du combat. Still, in spite of their loss, the latter was more than adequate to the capture, unless a miracle should interpose to prevent it; and, exasperated as they were by the fall of their comrades, their efforts became at each moment more resolute and successful. A deadly contest had been maintained in the gangway, from which, however, Gerald was compelled to retire, although bravely supported by his handful of followers. His force now consisted merely of five men remaining of his own party, and three of those who had been detached, who, all that were left alive, had been compelled to fall back on their commander. How long he would have continued the hopeless and desperate struggle in this manner is doubtful, had not a fresh enemy appeared in his rear. These were the crews of two other boats, who, having boarded without difficulty, now came up to the assistance of their comrades. So completely taken by surprise was Gerald in this quarter, that the first intimation he had of his danger was, in the violent seizure of his sword arm from behind, and a general rush upon and disarming of the remainder of his followers. On turning to behold his enemy, he saw with concern the triumphant face of Desborough.
"Every dog has his day, I guess," huskily chuckled the settler, as by the glare of several torches which had been suddenly lighted, he was now seen casting looks of savage vengeance, and holding his formidable knife threateningly over the head of the officer whom he had grappled. "I reckon as how I told you it would be Jeremiah Desborough's turn next."
"Silence, fellow—loose your hold," shouted one, whose authoritative voice and manner announced him for an officer, apparently the leader of the boarding party.
"I regret much, sir," pursued the American commander, seriously, and turning to Gerald, "that your obstinate defence should have been carried to the length it has. We were given to understand that ours would not be an easy conquest, yet little deemed it would have been purchased with the lives of so many of our force. Still, even while we deplore our loss, have we hearts to estimate the valor of our foe. I cannot give you freedom, since the gift is not at my disposal; but at least I may spare you the pain of surrendering a blade you have so nobly wielded. Retain your sword, sir."
Gerald's was not a nature to remain untouched by such an act of chivalrous courtesy, and he expressed, in brief but pointed terms, his sense of the compliment.
Five minutes afterwards Gerald, who had exchanged his trusty cutlass for the sword he had been so flatteringly permitted to retain, found himself in the leading boat of the little return squadron, and seated at the side of his generous captor.
"I think you said," he observed, "that you had been informed the conquest of the schooner would not be an easy one. Would it be seeking too much to know who was your informant."
The American officer shook his head. "I fear I am not at liberty exactly to name—but thus much I may venture to state, that the person who has so rightly estimated your gallantry, is one not wholly unknown to you."
"This is ambiguous. One question more—were you prepared to expect the failure of the schooner's principal means of defence, her long gun?"
"If you recollect the cheer that burst from my fellows at the moment when the harmless flash was seen ascending, you will require no further elucidation on that head," replied the American evasively.
This was sufficient for Gerald. He folded his arms, sank his head upon his chest, and continued to muse deeply. Soon afterwards the boat touched thebeach, where many of the citizens were assembled to hear tidings of the enterprize and congratulate the victors. Thence he was conducted to the neat little inn, which was the only accommodation the small town, or rather village of Buffalo, at that time afforded.
At the termination of the memorable war of the Revolution—that war, which, on the one hand, severed the ties that bound the Colonies in interest and affection with the parent land, and on the other, seemed, as by way of indemnification, to have riveted the Canadas in closer love to their adopted mother—hundreds of families who had remained staunch in their allegiance quitted the American soil, to which they had been unwillingly transferred, and hastened to close, on one side of the vast chain of waters that separated the descendants of France from the descendants of England, the evening of an existence, whose morning and noon had been passed on the other. Among the number of these was Major Grantham, who, at the close of the Revolution, had espoused a daughter (the only remaining child) of Frederick and Madeline De Haldimar, whose many vicissitudes of suffering prior to their marriage, have been fully detailed in Wacousta. When, at that period, the different garrisons on the frontier were given up to the American troops, the several British regiments crossed over into Canada, and, after a short term of service in that country, were successively relieved by fresh corps from England. One of the earliest recalled of these was the regiment of Colonel Frederick De Haldimar. Local interests, however, attaching his son-in-law to Upper Canada, the latter had, on the reduction of his corps, a provincial regiment, well known throughout the war of the Revolution, for its strength, activity, and good service finally fixed himself at Amherstburg.
In the domestic relations of life Major Grantham was exemplary, although perhaps his rigid notions of right had obtained for him more of the respect than of the love of those who came within their influence, and yet no mean portion of both. Tenderly attached to his wife, whom he had lost when Gerald was yet in his twelfth year, he had not ceased to deplore her loss; and this perhaps had contributed to nourish a reservedness of disposition, which, without at all aiming at, or purposing, such effect, insensibly tended to the production of a corresponding reserve on the part of his children, that increased with their years. Indeed, on their mother all the tenderness of their young hearts had been lavished, and, when they suddenly saw themselves deprived of her who loved and had been loved by them, with doting fondness, they felt as if a void had been left in their affections which the less tender evidences of paternal love were but insufficient wholly to supply. Still—although not to the same extent—did they love their father also; and what was wanted in intensity of feeling was more than made up by the deep, the exalted respect, they entertained for his principles and conduct. It was with pride they beheld him, not merely the deservedly idolized of the low, but the respected of the high—the example of one class, and the revered of another; one whose high position in the social circle had been attained, less by his striking exterioradvantages than the inward worth that governed every action of his life, and whose moral character, as completelysans tâcheas his fulfilment of the social duties was proverbiallysans reproche, could not fail, in a certain degree, to reflect the respect it commanded upon themselves.
As we have before observed, however, all the fervor of their affection had been centered in their mother, and that was indeed a melancholy night in which the youths had been summoned to watch the passing away of her gentle spirit for ever from their love. Isabella De Haldimar had, from her earliest infancy, been remarkable for her quiet and contemplative character; and bred amid scenes that brought at every retrospect recollections of some acted horror, it is not surprising that the bias given by nature should have been developed and strengthened by the events that had surrounded her. Not dissimilar in disposition, as she was not unlike in form, to her mother, she was by that mother carefully endowed with those gentler attributes of goodness, which, taking root within a soil so eminently disposed to their reception, could not fail to render her in after life a model of excellence, both as a mother and a wife. Notwithstanding, however, this moulding of her pliant and well-directed mind, there was about her a melancholy, which, while it gave promise of the devoted affection of the mother, offered but little prospect of cheerfulness, in an union with one, who, reserved himself, could not be expected to temper that melancholy by the introduction of a gaiety that was not natural to him. And yet it was for this very melancholy, tender and fascinating in her, that Major Grantham had sought the hand of Isabella De Haldimar; and it was for the very austerity and reserve of his general manner, more than from the manly beauty of his tall dark person, that he too had become the object of her secret choice long before he had proposed for her.
The austerity which Major Grantham carried with him into public life was, if not wholly laid aside, at least considerably softened, in the presence of his wife, and when, later, the birth of two sons crowned their union, there was nothing left her to desire which it was in the power of circumstances to bestow. Mrs. De Haldimar had not taken into account the effect likely to be produced by a separation from herself—the final severing, as it were, of every tie of blood. Of the four children who had composed the family of Colonel Frederick De Haldimar, the two oldest (officers in his own corps) had perished in the war: the fourth, a daughter, had died young, of a decline: and the loss of the former especially, who had grown up with her from childhood to youth, was deeply felt by the sensitive Isabella. With the dreadful scenes perpetrated at Detroit—scenes in which their family had been the principal sufferers—the boys had been familiarized by the soldiers of their father's regiment, who often took them to the several points most worthy of remark from the incidents connected with them; and, pointing out the spots on which their uncle Charles and their aunt Clara had fallen victims to the terrible hatred of Wacousta for their grandfather, detailed the horrors of those days with a rude fidelity of coloring that brought dismay and indignation to the hearts of their wondering and youthful auditors. On these occasions Isabella became the depository of all they had gleaned. To her they confided, under the same pledge of secrecy that had been exacted from themselves, every circumstance of horror connected with those days; nor were they satisfied, until they had shown her those scenes with which so many dreadful recollections were associated.
Thus was the melancholy of Isabella fed by the very silence in which she was compelled to indulge. Often was her pillow wetted with tears, as she passed in review the several fearful incidents connected with the tale in which her brothers had so deeply interested her, and she would have given worlds at those moments, had they been hers to bestow, to recal to life and animation the beloved but unfortunate uncle and aunt, to whose fate, her brothers assured her, even their veteran friends never alluded without sorrow. Often, too, did she dwell on the share her own fond mother had borne in those transactions, and the anguish which must have pierced her heart when first apprized of the loss of her, whom she had eventhenloved with all a mother's love. Nay, more than once, while gazing on the face of the former, her inmost soul given up to the recollection of all she had endured, first at Michillimackinac, and afterwards at Detroit, had she unconsciously suffered the tears to course down her cheeks without an effort to restrain them. Ignorant of the cause, Mrs. De Haldimar only ascribed this emotion to the natural melancholy of her daughter's character, and then she would gently chide her, and seek, by a variety of means, to divert her thoughts into some lively channel; but she had little success in the attempt to eradicate reflections already rooted in so congenial a soil.
Her sister died very young, and she scarcely felt her loss; but when, subsequently, the vicissitudes of a military life had deprived her for ever of her beloved brothers, her melancholy increased. It was however the silent, tearless melancholy, that knows not the paroxysm of outrageous grief. The quiet resignation of her character formed an obstacle to the inroads of all vivacious sorrow; yet was her health not the less effectually undermined by the slow action of her innate feeling, unfortunately too much fostered by outward influences. By her marriage and the birth of her sons, whom she loved with all a mother's fondness, her mental malady had been materially diminished, and indeed in a great degree superseded, but unhappily, previous to these events, it had seriously effected her constitution, and produced a morbid susceptibility of mind and person, that exposed her to be overwhelmed by the occurrence of any of those afflictions which otherwise she might, with ordinary fortitude, have endured. When therefore intelligence from England announced that her parents had both perished in a hurricane on their route to the West Indies, whither the regiment of Colonel De Haldimar had been ordered, the shock was too great for her, mentally and physically enfeebled as she had been, to sustain, and she sank gradually under this final infliction of Providence.
Major Grantham beheld with dismay the effect of this blow upon his beloved wife. Fell consumption had now marked her for her own, and so rapid was the progress of the disease acting on a temperament already too much predisposed to its influence, that, in despite of all human preventives, the sensitive Isabella, before six months had elapsed, was summoned to a better world.
We will pass over the deep grief which preyed upon the hearts of the unfortunate brothers for weeks after they had been compelled to acknowledge the stern truth that they were indeed motherless.
It was soon after this event, that the first seeds of disunion began to spring up between England and the United States, the inevitable results of which itwas anticipated, would be the involving of Canada in the struggle; and, notwithstanding the explosion did not take place for several years afterwards, preparations were made on either shore, to an extent that kept the spirit of enterprise on the alert.
Inheriting the martial spirit of their family, the inclinations of the young Granthams led them to the service; and, as their father could have no reasonable objection to oppose to a choice which promised not merely to secure his sons in an eligible profession, but to render them in some degree of benefit to their country, he consented to their views. Gerald's preference leading him to the navy, he was placed on that establishment as a midshipman; while Henry, several years later, obtained, through the influence of their father's old friend General Brock, an ensigncy in the King's Regiment.
Meanwhile, Major Grantham, whose reserve appeared to have increased since the death of his wife, seemed to seek, in the active discharge of his magisterial duties, a relief from the recollection of the loss he had sustained; and it was about this period that, in consequence of many of the American settlers in Canada, having, in anticipation of a rupture between the two countries, secretly withdrawn themselves to the opposite shore, his exaction of the duties of British subjects from those who remained, became more vigorous than ever.
We have already shown Desborough to have been the most unruly and disorderly of the worthless set; and as no opportunity was omitted of compelling him to renew his oath of allegiance, (while his general conduct was strictly watched), the hatred of the man for the stern magistrate was daily matured, until at length it grew into an inextinguishable desire for revenge.
The chief, and almost only recreation, in which Major Grantham indulged, was that of fowling. An excellent shot himself, he had been in some degree the instructor of his sons; and, although, owing to the wooded nature of the country, the facilities afforded to the enjoyment of his favorite pursuit in the orthodox manner of a true English sportsman, were few, still, as game was everywhere abundant, he had continued to turn to account the advantages that were actually offered. Both Gerald and Henry had been his earlier companions in the sport, but, of late years and especially since the death of their mother, he had been in the habit of going out alone.
It was one morning in that season of the year when the migratory pigeons pursue their course towards what are termed the "burnt woods," on which they feed, and in such numbers as to cover the surface of the heavens, as with a dense and darkening cloud, that Major Grantham sallied forth at early dawn, with his favorite dog and gun, and, as was his custom, towards Hartley's point. Disdaining, as unworthy of his skill, the myriads of pigeons that everywhere presented themselves, he passed from the skirt of the forest towards an extensive swamp, in the rear of Hartley's, which, abounding in golden plover and snipe, usually afforded him a plentiful supply. On this occasion he was singularly successful, and, having bagged as many birds as he could conveniently carry, was in the act of ramming down his last charge, when the report of a shot came unexpectedly from the forest. In the next instant he was sensible he was wounded, and, placing his hand to his back, felt it wet with blood. As there was at the moment several large wild ducks within a few yards of the spot where he stood, and between himself and theperson who had fired, he at once concluded that he had been the victim of an accident, and, feeling the necessity of assistance, he called loudly on the unseen sportsman to come forward to his aid; but, although his demand was several times repeated, no answer was returned, and no one appeared. With some difficulty he contrived, after disembarrassing himself of his game-bag, to reach the farm at Hartley's, where every assistance was afforded him, and, a waggon having been procured, he was conducted to his home, when, on examination the wound was pronounced to be mortal.
On the third day from this event Major Grantham breathed his last, bequeathing the guardianship of his sons to Colonel D'Egville, who had married his sister. At this epoch, Gerald was absent with his vessel on a cruise, but Henry received his parting blessing upon both, accompanied by a solemn injunction, that they should never be guilty of any act which could sully the memory, either of their mother or himself. This Henry promised, in the name of both, most religiously to observe; and, when Gerald returned, and to his utter dismay beheld the lifeless form of the parent, whom he had quitted only a few days before in all the vigor of health, he not only renewed the pledge given by his brother, but with the vivacity of character habitual to him, called down the vengeance of Heaven upon his head, should he ever be found to swerve from those principles of honor, which had been so sedulously inculcated in him.
Meanwhile, there was nothing to throw even the faintest light on the actual cause of Major Grantham's death. On the first probing and dressing of the wound, the murderous lead had been extracted, and, as it was discovered to be a rifle ball it was taken for granted that some Indian, engaged in the chase, had, in the eagerness of pursuit, missed an intermediate object at which he had taken aim and lodged the ball accidentally in the body of the old gentleman; and that, terrified at discovery of the mischief he had done, and perhaps apprehending punishment, he had hastily fled from the spot, to avoid detection. This opinion, unanimously entertained by the townspeople, was shared by the brothers, who knowing the unbounded love and respect of all for their parent, dreamt not for one moment that his death could have been the result of premeditation. It was left for Desborough to avow, at a later period, that he had been the murderer; and with what startling effect on him, to whom the admission was exultingly made, we have already seen.
Autumn had passed away, and winter, the stern invigorating winter of beautiful America had already covered the earth with enduring snows, and the waters with bridges of seemingly eternal ice, and yet no effort had been made by the Americans to repossess themselves of the country they had so recently lost. The several garrisons of Detroit and Malden, reposing under the laurels they had so easily won, made holiday of their conquest; and, secure in the distance that separated them from the more populous districts of the Union, seemed to have taken it for granted that they had played their final part in the active operations of the war, and would be suffered to remain inundisturbed possession. But the storm was already brewing in the far distance which, advancing progressively like the waves of the coming tempest, was destined first to shake them in their security, and finally to overwhelm them in its vortex. With the natural enterprise of their character, the Americans had no sooner ascertained the fall of Detroit, than means slow but certain, were taken for the recovery of a post, with which, their national glory was in no slight decree identified. The country whence they drew their resources for the occasion, were the new states of Ohio and Kentucky, and one who had previously travelled through those immense tracts of forests, where the dwelling of the backwoodsman is met with at long intervals, would have marvelled at the zeal and promptitude with which these adventurous people, abandoning their homes, and disregarding their personal interests, flocked to the several rallying points. Armed and accoutred at their own expense, with the unerring rifle that provided them with game, and the faithful hatchet that had brought down the dark forest into ready subjection to their will, their claim upon the public was for the mere sustenance they required on service. It is true that this partial independence of the Government whom they served rather in the character of volunteers, than of conscripts, was in a great measure fatal to their discipline; but in the peculiar warfare of the country, absence of discipline was rather an advantage than a demerit, since when checked, or thrown into confusion, they looked not for a remedy in the resumption of order, but in the exercise each of his own individual exertions, facilitated as he was by his general knowledge of localities, and his confidence in his own personal resources.
But although new armies were speedily organized—if organized may be termed those who brought with them into the contest much courage and devotedness, yet little discipline—the Americans, in this instance, proceeded with a caution that proved their respect for the British garrison, strongly supported as it was by a numerous force of Indians. Within two months after the capitulation of Detroit, a considerable army, Ohioans and Kentuckians, with some regular infantry, had been pushed forward as with a view to feel their way; but these having been checked by the sudden appearance of a detachment from Fort Malden, had limited their advance to the Miami River, on the banks of which, and on the ruins of one of the old English forts of Pontiac's days, they had constructed new fortifications, and otherwise strongly entrenched themselves. It was a mistake, however, to imagine that the enemy would be content with establishing himself here. The new fort merely served as a nucleus for the concentration of such resources of men and warlike equipment, as were necessary to the subjection, firstly of Detroit, and afterwards of Fort Malden. Deprived of the means of transport, the shallow bed of the Miami aiding them but little, it was a matter of no mean difficulty with the Americans to convey, through several hundred miles of forest, the heavy guns they required for battering, and as it was only at intervals this could be effected—the most patient endurance and unrelaxing perseverance being necessary to the end. From the inactivity of this force, or rather the confinement of its operations to objects of defence, the English garrison had calculated on undisturbed security, at least throughout the winter, if not for a longer period; but, although it was not until this latter season was far advanced that the enemy broke up from his entrenchments on the Miami, andpushed himself forward for the attainment of his final view, the error of imputing inactivity to him was discovered at a moment when it was least expected.
It was during a public ball given at Amherstburg, on the 18th of January, 1813, that the first intelligence was brought of the advance of a strong American force, whose object it was supposed was to push rapidly on to Detroit, leaving Amherstburg behind to be disposed of later. The officer who brought this intelligence was the fat Lieutenant Raymond, who, commanding an outpost at the distance of some leagues, had been surprised, and after a resistance very creditable under the circumstances, driven in by the American advanced guard with a loss of nearly half his command.
Thus was the same consternation produced in the ball-room at Amherstburg, that at a later period occurred in a similar place of amusement at Brussels; and although not followed by the same momentous public results, producing the same host of fluttering fears and anxieties in the bosoms of the female votaries of Terpsichore. We believe, however, that there existed some dissimilarity in the several modes of communication—the Duke of Wellington receiving his, with some appearance of regard on the part of the communicator for the nerves of the ladies, while to Colonel St. Julian, commanding at Amherstburg, and engaged at that moment at the whist-table, the news was imparted in stentorian tones, which were audible to every one in the adjoining ball-room.
But even if his voice had not been heard, the appearance of Lieutenant Raymond would have justified the apprehension of any reasonable person, for, in the importance of the moment, he had not deemed it necessary to make any change in the dress in which he had been surprised and driven back. Let the reader figure to himself a remarkably fat, ruddy faced man, of middling age, dressed in a pair of tightly fitting, dread-naught trowsers, and a shell jacket that had once been scarlet, but now, from use and exposure, rather resembled the color of brickdust; boots from which all polish had been taken by the grease employed to render them snow-proof; a brace of pistols thrust into the black waist belt that encircled his huge circumference, and from which depended a sword, whose steel scabbard showed the rust of the rudest bivouac. Let him, moreover, figure to himself that ruddy, carbuncled face, and nearly as ruddy brow, suffused with perspiration, although in a desperately cold winter's night, and the unwashed hands, and mouth, and lips black from the frequent biting of the ends of cartridges, while ever and anon the puffed cheeks, in the effort to procure air and relieve the panting chest, recal the idea of a Bacchus, after one of his most lengthened orgies—let him figure all this, and if he will add short, curling, wiry, damp hair, surmounting a head as round as a turnip, a snubby, red,retroussénose, and light grey eyes; he will have a tolerable idea of the startling figure that thus abruptly made its appearance in the person of Lieutenant Raymond, first among the dancers, and bustlingly thence into the adjoining card-room.
At the moment of his entrance, every eye had been turned upon this strange apparition, while an almost instinctive sense of the cause of his presence pervaded every breast. Indeed it was impossible to behold him arrayed in the bivouac garb in which we have described him, contrasted as it was with the elegant ball dresses of his brother officers and not attribute his presence tosome extraordinary motive; and as almost every one in the room was aware of his having been absent on detachment, his mission had been half divined even before he had opened his lips to Colonel St. Julian, for whom, on entering, he had hurriedly inquired.
But when the latter officer was seen soon afterwards to rise from and leave the card-table, and, after communicating hurriedly with the several heads of departments, quit altogether the scene of festivity, there could be no longer a doubt; and, as in all cases of the sort, the danger was magnified, as it flew from lip to lip, even as the tiny snow-ball becomes a mountain by the accession it receives in its rolling course. Suddenly the dance was discontinued, and indeed in time, for the fingers of the non-combatant musicians, sharing in the general nervousness, had already given notice, by numerous falsettos, of their inability to proceed much longer. Bonnets, cloaks, muffs, tippets, shawls, snow-shoes, and all the paraphernalia of a female winter equipment peculiar to the country, were brought unceremoniously in, and thrownen masseupon the deserted benches of the ball-room. Then was there a scramble among the fair dancers, who, having secured their respective property, quitted the house; not, however, without a secret fear, on the part of many, that the first object they should encounter, on sallying forth, would be a corps of American sharpshooters. To the confusion within was added the clamor without, arising from swearing drivers, neighing horses, jingling bells, and jostling sledges. Finally, the only remaining ladies of the party were the D'Egvilles, whose sledge had not yet arrived: with these lingered Captain Molineux, Middlemore, and Henry Grantham, all of whom, having obtained leave of absence for the occasion, had accompanied them from Detroit. The two former, who had just terminated one of the old fashioned cotillions, then peculiar to the Canadas, stood leaning over the chairs of their partners, indulging in no very charitable comments on the unfortunate Raymond, to whose inopportune presence at that unseasonable hour they ascribed a host of most important momentary evils; as, for example, the early breaking up of the pleasantest ball of the season, the loss of an excellent anticipated supper that had been prepared for a later hour, and, although last not least, the necessity it imposed upon them of an immediate return, that bitter cold night, to Detroit. Near the blazing wood fire, at their side, stood Henry Grantham, and Captain St. Clair of the Engineers. The former with his thoughts evidently far away from the passing scene, the latter joining in the criticisms on Raymond.
A few moments afterwards Colonel D'Egville entered the room, now deserted save by the little coterie near the fire-place. Like Lieutenant Raymond's, his dress was more suited to the bivouac than the ball-room, and his countenance otherwise bore traces of fatigue.
His daughters flew to meet him. The officers also grouped around, desirous to hear what tidings he brought of the enemy, to corroborate the statement of Raymond. To the great mortification of the latter, it was now found that he and his little detachment had had all the running to themselves, and that, while they fancied the whole of the American army to be close at their heels, the latter had been so kept in check by the force of Indians, under Colonel D'Egville in person, as to be compelled to retire upon the point whence the original attack had been made. They had not followed the broken English outpost more than a mile, and yet, so convinced of close pursuit had been the latter, that for the space of six leagues they had scarce relaxed in their retreat.The information now brought by Colonel D'Egville was, that the Americans had not advanced a single foot beyond the outpost in question, but, on the contrary, had commenced constructing a stockade and throwing up entrenchments. He added, moreover, that he had just dispatched an express to Sandwich, to General Proctor, communicating the intelligence, and suggesting the propriety of an attack before they could advance farther, and favor any movement on the part of the inhabitants of Detroit. As this counter-movement on our part would require every man that could be spared from the latter fortress, Colonel D'Egville seemed to think that before the officers could reach it, its garrison would be already on the way to join the expedition, which would doubtless be ordered to move from Amherstburg; and as the same impression appeared to exist in the mind of Colonel St. Julian, whom he had only just parted from to proceed in search of his daughters, the latter had taken it upon himself to determine that they should remain where they were until the answer, communicating the final decision of General Proctor, should arrive.
If the young officers were delighted at the idea of escaping the horror of an eighteen miles drive, on one of the bitterest nights of the season, supperless, and at the moment of issuing from a comfortable ball-room, their annoyance at (what they termed) the pusillanimity of Raymond, who had come thus unnecessarily in, to the utter annihilation of their evening's amusement—was in equal proportion. For this, on their way home, they revenged themselves by every sort of persiflage their humor could adapt to the occasion, until in the end they completely succeeded in destroying the good humor of Raymond, who eventually quitted them under feelings of mortified pride, which excited all the generous sympathy of the younger Grantham, while it created in his breast a sentiment of almost wrath against his inconsiderate companions. Even these latter were at length sensible that they had gone too far, and, as their better feelings returned, they sought to assure the offended object of their pleasantry that what they had uttered was merely in jest; but finding he received these disclaimers in moody silence, they renewed their attack, nor discontinued it until they separated for their mutual quarters for the night.
The following dawn broke in, decked with all the sad and sober grey peculiar to an American sky in the depth of winter, and, with the first rising of the almost rayless sun, commenced numerous warlike preparations, that gave promise to the inhabitants of some approaching crisis. The event justified their expectation; the suggestion of Colonel D'Egville had been adopted, and the same express which carried to General Proctor the information of the advance of the enemy, and the expulsion of Lieutenant Raymond from his post, was pushed on to Detroit, with an order for every man who could be spared from that fortress, to be marched without a moment's delay to Malden. At noon the detachment had arrived, and the General making his appearance soon after, the expedition, composed of the strength of the two garrisons, with a few light guns, and a considerable body of Indians, under the Chief Round-head, were pushed rapidly across the lake, and the same night occupied the only road by which the enemy could advance.
It was a picturesque sight to those who lingered on the banks of the Detroit, to watch the movement of that mass of guns, ammunition, cars and sledges, preceding the regular march of the troops, as the whole crossed the firm but rumbling ice, at the head of the now deserted Island of Bois Blanc. Nor wasthis at all lessened in effect by the wild and irregular movements of the Indians, who, advancing by twos and threes, but more often singly, and bounding nimbly yet tortuously, along the vast white field with which the outline of their swarthy forms contrasted, called up at the outset, the idea of a legion of devils.
It was during one of the coldest mornings in January, that this little army bivouaced on the banks of a small rivulet, distant little more than a league from the position which had been taken up by the Americans. So unexpected and rapid had been the advance of the expedition, that not the slightest suspicion appeared to be entertained by the Americans even of its departure; and from information brought at a late hour by the Indian scouts, who had been dispatched at nightfall to observe their motions, it was gathered that, so far from apprehending or being prepared for an attack, all was quiet in their camp, in which the customary night-fires were then burning. Thus favored by the false security of their enemies, the British force, after partaking of their rude but substantial meal, and preparing their arms, laid themselves down to rest in their accoutrements and great coats; their heads reclining on whatever elevation, however small, presented itself, and their feet half buried in the embers of the fires they had with difficulty kindled on the frozen ground, from which the snow had been removed—all sanguine of success, and all more or less endeavoring to snatch, amid the nipping frost to which their upper persons were exposed, a few hours of sleep prior to the final advance, which was to take place an hour before dawn.
In the midst of the general desolateness of aspect which encompassed all, there were few privations endured by the men that were not equally shared by their officers. A solitary and deserted log hut was the only thing in the shape of a human habitation within the bivouac, and this had been secured as the headquarters of the General and his staff—all besides had no other canopy than the clear starry heavens, or, here and there, the leafless and unsheltering branches of some forest tree—and yet, around one large and blazing fire, which continued to be fed at intervals by masses of half-decayed wood, that, divested of their snow, lay simmering and drying before it, was frequently to be heard the joyous yet suppressed laugh, and piquant sally, as of men whose spirits no temporary hardship or concern for the eventful future could effectually suppress.
During the whole of the march, Raymond had evinced a seriousness of demeanor by no means common to him, and although he had made one of the party in the general bivouac, he had scarcely opened his lips, except to reply to the most direct questions. A renewed attack at first drew from him no comment, although it was evident he felt greatly pained; but when he had finished smoking his cigar, he raised himself, not without difficulty, from the ground, and began with a seriousness of manner that, being unusual, not a little surprised them, "Gentlemen, you have long been pleased to select me as your butt."
"Of course," hastily interrupted Captain Molineux, hazarding his pun, "we naturally select you for what you most resemble."
"Captain Molineux—gentlemen!" resumed Raymond, with greater emphasis.
"He is getting warm on the subject," observed Middlemore. "Have a care, Molineux, that the butt does notchurnuntil in the end it becomes thebutter."
"Ha! ha! ha!" vociferated St. Clair, "good, excellent, the best you ever made, Middlemore."
"Gentlemen!" persevered Raymond, in a tone, and with a gesture, of impatience, "this trifling will be deeply regretted by you all to-morrow; I repeat," he pursued, when he found he had at length succeeded in procuring silence, "you have long been pleased to select me as your butt, and while this was confined to my personal appearance, painful as I have sometimes found your humor, I could still endure it; but when I perceive those whom I have looked upon as friends and brothers, casting imputations upon my courage, I may be excused for feeling offended. You have succeeded in wounding my heart, and some of you will regret the hour when you did so. Another, perhaps, would adopt a different course, but I am not disposed to return evil for evil. I wish to believe, that in all your taunts upon this subject you have merely indulged your bantering humor—but not the less have you pained an honest heart. To-morrow will prove that you have grievously wronged me, and I am mistaken if you will not deeply regret it."
So saying, he hurried away across the snow towards a distant fire, which lighted the ruder bivouac of the adjutant and quartermaster, and was there seen to seat himself with the air of one who has composed himself for the night.
"What a silly fellow, to take the thing so seriously!" said Molineux, half vexed at himself, half moved by the reproachful tone of Raymond's address.
"For God's sake, Grantham, call him back. Tell him we are ready to make any—every atonement for our offence," urged St. Clair.
"And I will promise never to utter another pun at his expense as long as I live," added Middlemore.
But before Henry Grantham, who had been a pained and silent witness of the scene, and who had already risen with a view to follow the wounded Raymond, could take a single step on his mission of peace, the low roll of the drum, summoning to fall in, warned them that the hour of action had already arrived, and each, quitting his fire, hastened to the more immediate and pressing duties of assembling his men, and carefully examining into the state of their appointments.
In ten minutes from the beating of thereveillé—considerably shorn of its wonted proportions, as the occasion demanded—the bivouac had been abandoned, and the little army again upon their march. What remained to be traversed of the space that separated them from the enemy, was an alternation of plain and open forest, but so completely in juxtaposition, that the head of the column had time to clear one wood and enter a second before its rear could disengage itself from the first. The effect of this, by the dim and peculiar light reflected from the snow across which they moved, was picturesque in the extreme, nor was the interest diminished by the utter silence that had pervaded every part of the little army, the measured tramp of whose march, mingled with the hollow and unavoidable rumbling of the light guns, being the only sounds to be heard amid that mass of living matter. The Indians, with the exception of a party of scouts, had been the last to quit their rude encampment, and as they now, in their eagerness to get to the front, glided stealthily by in the deep snows on either side of the more beaten track by which the troops advanced, and utterly without sound in their foot-fall they might rather have been compared to spirits of the wilds, than to human beings.
The regiment having been told off into divisions, it so happened that Raymond and Henry Grantham, although belonging to different companies, now found themselves near each other. The latter had been most anxious to approach his really good-hearted companion, with a view to soothe his wounded feelings, and to convey, in the fullest and most convincing terms, the utter disclaimer of his inconsiderate brother officers, to reflect seriously on his conduct in the recent retreat—or, indeed, to intend their observations for anything beyond a mere pleasantry. As, however, the strictest order had been commanded to be observed in the march, and Raymond and he happened to be at opposite extremities of the division, this had been for some time impracticable. A temporary halt having occurred, just as the head of the column came within sight of the enemy's fires, Grantham quitted his station on the flank, and hastened to the head of his division, where he found Raymond with his arms folded across his chest, and apparently absorbed in deep thought. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and inquired in a tone of much kindness the subject of his musing.
Touched by the manner in which he was addressed, Raymond dropped his arms and grasping the hand of the youth, observed in his usual voice; "Ah, is it you Henry—Egad, my dear boy, I was just thinking of you—and how very kind you have always been; never quizzing me as those thoughtless fellows have done—and certainly never insinuating anything against my courage—that was too bad, Henry, too bad, I could have forgiven anything but that."
"Nay, nay, Raymond," answered his companion, soothingly; "believe me, neither Molineux, nor Middlemore, nor St. Clair meant anything beyond a jest. I can assure you they did not, for when you quitted us they asked me to go in search of you, but the assembly then commencing to beat, I was compelled to hasten to my company, nor have I had an opportunity of seeing you until now."
"Very well, Henry, I forgive them, for it is not in my nature to keep anger long; but tell them that they should not wantonly wound the feelings of an unoffending comrade. As I told them, they may regret their unkindness to me before another sun has set. If so, I wish them no other punishment."
"What mean you, my dear Raymond?"
"Egad! I scarcely know myself, but something tells me very forcibly my hour is come."
"Nonsense, this is but the effect of the depression, produced by fatigue and over excitement, added to the recent annoyance of your feelings."
"Whatever it proceed from, I had made up my mind to it before we set out. Henry, my kind good Henry, I have neither friend nor relative on earth—no one to inherit the little property I possess. In the event of my falling, you will find the key of my desk in the breast pocket of my coat. A paper in that desk appoints you my executor. Will you accept the trust?"
"Most sacredly, Raymond, will I fulfil every instruction it contains should I myself survive; but I cannot, will not, bring myself to anticipate your fall."
"Move on, move on," passed quickly in a whisper from front to rear of the column.
"God bless you, Henry," exclaimed Raymond, again pressing the hand of the youth—"remember the key."
"We shall talk of that to-night," was the light reply. "Meanwhile, dear Raymond, God bless you," and again Grantham fell back to his place in the rear of the division.
Five minutes later, and the troops were finally brought up in front of the enemy. A long line of fires marked the extent of the encampment, from which even then, the "all's well" of the sentinels could be occasionally heard. Except these, all profoundly slept, nor was there anything to indicate they had the slightest suspicion of an enemy being within twenty miles of them.
"What glorious cannon work we shall have presently," whispered Villiers to Molineux, as they were brought together by their stations at the adjacent extremities of their respective division. "Only mark how the fellows sleep."
"The devil take the cannon," muttered Villiers, "the bayonet for me, but you are right, for see, there go the guns to the front—hark there is a shot; the sentinels have discovered us at last; and now they are starting from before their fires, and hastening to snatch their arms."
Whist, whist, whist, flew three balls successively between their heads.
"Ha, here they begin to talk to us in earnest, and now to our duty."
The next moment all was roar, and bustle, and confusion, and death.
The sun was in the meridian; all sounds of combat had ceased. From the field, in which the troops had commenced the action, numerous sledges were seen departing, laden with the dead—the wounded having previously been sent off. One of these sledges remained stationary at some distance within the line, where the ravages of death were marked by pools of blood upon the snow, and at this point were grouped several individuals, assembled round a body which was about to be conveyed away.
"By Heavens, I would give the world never to have said an unkind word to him," observed one, whose arm suspended from a sling, attested he had not come scatheless out of the action. It was St. Clair, whose great ambition it had always been to have his name borne among the list of wounded—provided there were no broken bones in the question.
"As brave as he was honest-hearted," added a second, "you say, Grantham, that he forgave us all our nonsense."
"He did, Molineux. He declared he could not bear resentment against you long. But still, I fear, he could not so easily forget. He observed to me, jestingly, just before deploying into line, that he felt his time was come, but there can be no doubt, from what we all witnessed, that he was determined from the outset to court his death."
Captain Molineux turned away, apparently much affected—Middlemore spoke not, but it was evident he also was deeply pained. Each seemed to feel that he had been in some degree accessory to the catastrophe, but the past could not be recalled. The body, covered with blood, exuding from several wounds, was now placed on the sledge which was drawn off to join several others just departed, and the lingering officers hastened to overtake their several companies.
When the action was at the hottest, one of the small guns in front (all of which had been fearfully exposed), was left without a single artilleryman. Availing themselves of this circumstance, the enemy, who were unprovided with artillery of any description, made a movement as if to possess themselves of, and turn it against the attacking force, then closing rapidly to dispute the possession of the breast work which covered their riflemen. Colonel St. Julianseeing this movement, called out for volunteers to rescue the gun from its perilous situation. Scarcely had the words passed his lips when an individual moved forward from the line, in the direction indicated. It was Lieutenant Raymond—Exposed to the fire, both of friends and foes, the unfortunate officer advanced calmly and unconcernedly, in the presence of the whole line, and before the Americans could succeed in even crossing their defences, had seized the gun by the drag rope, and withdrawn it under cover of the English fire. But this gallant act of self-devotedness, was not without its terrible price. Pierced by many balls, which the American riflemen had immediately directed at him, he fell dying within ten feet of the British line, brandishing his sword and faintly shouting a "huzza," that was answered by his companions with the fierce spirit of men stung to new exertion, and determined to avenge his fall.
Thus perished the fat, the plain, the carbuncled, but really gallant-hearted Raymond—whose intrinsic worth was never estimated until he had ceased to exist. His fall, and all connected therewith, forms a sort of episode in our story, yet is it one not altogether without its moral. A private monument, on which was inscribed all that may soothe and flatter after death, was erected to his memory by those very officers whose persiflage, attacking in this instance even his honor as a soldier, had driven him to seek the fate he found. Of this there could be no question; for, brave as he unquestionably was, Raymond would not have acted as if courting death throughout, had he not fully made up his mind either to gain great distinction or to die under the eyes of those who had, he conceived, so greatly injured him. It is but justice to add that, for three days from his death, Middlemore did not utter a single pun, neither did St. Clair or Molineux indulge in a satirical observation.