On descending from his sleeping place, Morton found the woman preparing
breakfast, and, looking into the adjoining room, saw that three of
its inmates were still sleeping surrounded by the litter of their
night’s carousal. Stepping out of doors, he was surprised by the beauty
of the sylvan scene. The air had the freshness and the sky the deep
tender-blue that follows a thunder-storm, and the sunshine glittered
on the smooth surface of the river that, in all its windings, was
overhung by towering trees, except where small openings had been made
by the settlers, from which peeped their white shanties. The eminence
which had excited his curiosity the night before, he perceived to be
an island, with a largish house at its base, flanked by a wind-mill.
At the landing, was the bateau, with a group of men. Approaching them,
he found the captain, whose bloodshot eyes alone indicated his excess
of the preceding night. “Ah, Morton,” he exclaimed, “you were the only
wise man among us; you have your wits about you this morning. For me,
I had a few hours’ pleasure I now loathe to think of and a racking
headache. Come, let us have a swim and then go to breakfast.”
Following him to the nook he sought, Morton told of his shot at the
spy. The captain listened attentively to the story. “I hope you winged
him,” he said, “but he will escape. The settlers, except a few Old
Countrymen, are all in sympathy with the Yankees, and will shelter and
help him to get away. We cannot make a move that word is not sent to
the enemy. I will warn the Indians to look out for him. Had it not been
for the rain, they could trace him to his lair.”
On returning to the house, they found their comrades trying to make
themselves presentable and sat down to a breakfast of fried pork and
sour bread, to which Morton did ample justice. The commissariat officer
told him he could not start for some time, as carts were few and the
rain would have filled the holes in the track called a road. He could
have forwarded him more quickly by canoes, but there was a risk of
wetting the powder at the rapids. It was noon before sufficient carts
arrived to enable Morton to start, when a laborious journey ensued,
the soldiers being called on constantly to help the undaunted ponies
to drag the cart-wheels out of the holes in which they got mired. When
they had gone a few miles the carts halted and the kegs were placed
in boats, which conveyed them to their destination. Camp La Fourche
was found to consist of a few temporary buildings, or rather sheds,
which, with the barns and shanties of the settlers near by, housed a
few hundred men, of whom few were regulars. Morton’s orders were to
remain and time passed heavily, the only excitement being when a scout
came in with reports of the movements of the American army on the
frontier, which were generally exaggerated. The camp had been purposely
placed at the forks of the English and Chateaugay rivers, to afford
a base of operations against the invader, should he approach either
by way of the town of Champlain or of Chateaugay. Morton relieved the
tedium of waiting by hunting and fishing, for his proper duties were
slight. At first he did not venture into the woods without a guide,
but experience quickly taught one so active and keen of observation
sufficient bush-lore to venture alone with his pocket-compass. The
fishing, at that late season, was only tolerable, and while he enjoyed
to the full the delight of skimming the glassy stretches of both rivers
in a birch canoe, he preferred the more active motion and greater
variety of traversing the pathless woods with his gun. He had been in
camp over a week when he started for an afternoon’s exploring of the
woods. After an hour’s tramp he struck the trail of what he believed
to be a bear. Following it was such pleasant exercise of his ingenuity
that he took no note of time, and he had traversed miles of swamp and
ridge before prudence cried halt. The sun was sinking fast, and to
retrace his track was out of the question. He resolved to strike due
north, which he knew would take him to the Chateaugay where he would
find shelter for the night. The flush of the sunset was dying from
the sky when he emerged from the woods on the banks of the river,
which flowed dark and silent between the endless array of trees which
sentinelled it on either side. Threading his way downward he, in time,
came upon a clearing--a gap in the bush filled with ripening grain and
tasselled corn. The shanty, a very humble one, stood at the top of the
bank, with the river at its feet. Gratified at the prospect of rest, he
paused before swinging himself over the rude fence. There rose in the
evening air the sound of singing: it was a psalm-tune. The family were
at worship. Reverently the soldier uncovered his head and listened.
The psalm ended, he could hear the voice of supplication, though not
the words. When Morton approached the house he saw a heavily-built man
leave the door to meet him.
“Gude e’en, freen; ye’re oot late. But I see ye’re are o’ the military
and your wark caas ye at a’ hoors. Is there ony news o’ the Yankee
army?”
Morton explained he had not been on duty but had got belated in hunting
and craved the boon of shelter until morning, for which he would pay.
“Pay! say ye. A dog wearing the King’s colors wad be welcome to my
best. You maun be new to this country to think the poorest settler in
it wad grudge to share his bite with ony passerby. Come your ways; we
are richt glad to see you.”
Entering the shanty Morton was astounded at the contrast between the
homelike tidiness of the interior and the rudeness of the exterior,
everything being neatly arranged and of spotless cleanliness. “Truly,”
he thought, “it is not abundance that makes comfort, but the taste and
ingenuity to make the best of what we have.” The glow of the log-fire
in the open chimney was supplemented by the faint light afforded by a
candle made from deer-fat, which showed him a tall young woman, who
came forward to shake hands without the slightest embarrassment, an
elderly woman, evidently the mother, who kept her seat by the fire,
explaining she “wasna very weel,” and two stout young men.
“Sit in by the fire, Mr Morton; there is a snell touch in the evening
air that makes it no unpleasant, and Maggie will get ye something to
eat. An hae ye nae news frae the lines? Does it no beat a’ that thae
Yankees, wha mak such pretensions to be the only folk i’ the warld wha
understan what liberty is, should fail in practice? What hae we done
that they shud come in tae disturb us? Hae we nae richt to live doucely
and quietly under our appointed ruler, that they should come into our
ain country to harry and maybe kill us? Dod, they are a bonny lot! In
the name o’ freedom drawing the sword to help the oppressor of Europe
and the slaughterer of thousands of God’s children by creation, if no
by adoption.”
“We have the comfort,” replied Morton, “that they have not got Canada
yet.”
“An never will,” replied the settler, “there’s no an Auld Countryman
on the Chateaugay wha wad na sooner tint life an a’ than gie up his
independence. My sons an mysel are enrolled in Captain Ogilvie’s
company and mair Yankees than they count on will hansel it’s ground
afore they win oor puir biggin.”
“Dinna speak sae, gudeman,” said his wife, “tho’ the Lord may chastise
he will not deliver us to the oppressor, but, as with the Assyrian,
will cause him, gin he come doon on us, to hear a rumor that shall make
him to return to his own land. We are but a feeble folk here by the
river-side, but He winna fail them wha trust Him.”
Maggie here beckoned the young officer to draw to the table, and the
bread and milk tasted all the sweeter to him that they had been spread
by so winsome a damsel. After supper Morton was glad to fall in with
the family’s custom of going early to bed, and accompanying the lads,
whom he found to be frank, hearty fellows, to the outbuilding, slept
comfortably alongside them on top of the fragrant fodder. At daylight
they were astir, when their guest joined them in their labors, until
a shout from Maggie told of breakfast being ready. Seen by daylight
the favorable impression made upon Morton the previous evening was
deepened, and he did not know which most to admire, her tact which
never placed her at a disadvantage or the deftness with which she
discharged her household duties. Reluctantly he left, accepting readily
the invitation to revisit them. In a couple of hours he was in camp and
reported himself.
The acquaintance thus accidentally formed was cultivated by Morton,
and few evenings passed that his canoe did not end its journey at the
foot of the bank whence the settler’s shanty overlooked the Chateaugay.
The more he knew of the family the more he was attracted, and before
long he was on familiar terms with all its members. The inaction of
camp-life in the backwoods ceased to be wearisome and there was a glow
and a joyousness in his days which he had never before known. So it
came, that when, one afternoon, the orderly-sergeant notified him the
officer in command desired to see him, the prospect of being sent away
caused him a pang of vexation. His orders were to be ready to start
at daylight for the frontier with despatches for the Indian guard
and to collect what information he could with regard to the American
army encamped at Four Corners. “I trust to your discretion,” said the
officer, “as to what means you will use to get it, but we want to
know the extent of the force and the prospect of their moving. I will
give you an Indian as a guide, and one who speaks English.” Morton
withdrew, pleased that the order was not one of recall to his regiment
at Montreal, and spent the evening with the Forsyths. The news of his
departure, on an errand that involved some danger, even though it would
last only a few days, dampened the innocent mirth of the household and
the soldier was vain enough to think Maggie gave his hand a warmer
pressure than usual when he left. He rose with the first streak of
daylight and had finished his breakfast when he was told his guide
was waiting. Hastily strapping his cloak on his back and snatching up
his musket, he went out and beheld an Indian standing stolidly on the
road. Morton noted that he was taller than the average of his race,
and, despite his grizzled hair, gave every sign of unabated vigor. He
was dressed in native fashion and his face was hideous with war-paint.
Without uttering a word, he led the way and they were soon buried in
the woods. The Indian’s pace, considering the nature of the ground
and the obstacles presented, was marvellously rapid, and induced no
fatigue. Morton vigorously exerted himself to keep up with him and, as
he did so, admired the deftness with which the Indian passed obstacles
which he laboriously overcame. The ease and smoothness with which
the red man silently slipped through thickets and fallen trees, he
compared to the motion of a fish, and his own awkwardness to that of a
blindfolded man, who stumbled at every obstacle. They had travelled
thus for over two hours when suddenly the Indian halted, peered
carefully forward, and then signed to Morton to stand still. Falling on
his knees the guide crept, or rather glided forward. Disregarding his
sign, Morton shortly followed until the object of the Indian’s quest
came in sight. Three deer were grazing on a natural meadow by the side
of a creek. Slowly the hunter raised his gun and its report was the
first intimation the timid creatures had that an enemy was near. The
youngest and plumpest had fallen; the others bounded into the bush.
Standing over the graceful creature, whose sides still palpitated, the
Indian said, “Lift.” It was the first word he had uttered. Morton drew
the four hoofs together and did so. “Put on your shoulder,” added the
guide. Morton laughed and set the animal down; he could lift it but to
carry it was out of the question. Without moving a feature, the Indian
grasped the deer by its legs, swung it round his neck, and stepped out
as if the load were no burden, and which he bore until the swamp was
passed and a ridge was reached, when he tied the hoofs together with a
withe and swung the carcase from as lofty a branch as he could reach.
Half an hour afterwards he pointed to a slight disturbance in the
litter of the forest. “Indian passed here this morning.”
“How do you know it was an Indian?”
“By mark of moccasin.”
“But some white men wear moccasins.”
“Yes, but white man steps differently. The wild duck flies no more like
the tame duck than the Indian walks like the pale face.”
Following the trail thus struck, they were soon hailed by a scout and
in the midst of the camp of the frontier guard they sought. Morton
counted seventeen Indians lounging or sleeping about the fire, and was
told there were as many more lurking in the bush, watching the enemy,
who had, of late, been sending in strong parties to make petty raids
upon the few settlers who lived on the Canadian side of the boundary.
As the captain was absent and would not be back until the afternoon,
Morton could only await his return, and the rest was not unwelcome, for
the rapid journey had induced some fatigue, and he was interested in
watching the Indians, this being his first experience with them apart
from white men. They paid much deference to his guide, whose name he
now learned was Hemlock, and the Indian of whom he made enquiry told
him the reason was that he was the son of a great sachem in a tribe now
destroyed, and was “a big medicine.” Hemlock accepted their tributes
to his superiority with unmoved countenance and as a matter of course,
until, after a long pow-wow, he stretched himself on the ground,
face-downwards, and went to sleep. Associating the Indians with gloomy
moroseness, and a stolidity insensible alike to pain or mirth, Morton
was surprised to see how, when left to themselves, they chattered
like children, laughed, and played boyish tricks upon one another, and
regretted he could not understand what they were saying. If he had, he
would have found their talk was the shallowest of banter.
Late in the afternoon the captain returned and warmly welcomed Morton.
Although dressed like an Indian, his only distinguishing feature being
a captain’s scarlet sash, Captain Perrigo was a white man and English
in speech, his familiarity with the Indians and their language having
been acquired during his residence at Caughnawaga. He was thoroughly
conversant with all that was passing in the American camp and expressed
his belief that only the timidity of General Hampton prevented a move
on Canada. The force was so strong and well-equipped that he believed
it could not be checked until the island of Montreal was reached. “How
can so large an army move through these woods?” asked Morton; “why,
even your handful of Indians could cut up a regiment in half an hour.”
“You forget,” replied Perrigo, “that the larger part of these American
soldiers have been reared on farms and are familiar with the bush.
They are at home with the axe, and have scouts as well-trained to
bush-fighting as our own. Worse than that, many of the American
settlers who left the Chateaugay and the other Huntingdon settlements
at the declaration of war are with them as guides.”
“I should like to see the American army,” said Morton.
“That is easy; we reconnoitre their camp this evening and you may go
with us.”
By this time dinner was ready and it was more appetizing than Morton
looked for. Hemlock, on his arrival, had told where he had left the
carcase of the deer, which two of the Indians went for and returned
with it slung between them on a pole. This they had cooked along with
pieces of fat pork. The venison, for a wonder, proved to be tender and
succulent, and was eaten with biscuit, of which there was an abundance.
When the time came to move, Perrigo gave the word, when 28 of his men
fell into line, Hemlock and Morton accompanying them. They moved in
silence in single file, the fleetest runner of their number leading
about two hundred yards ahead, to see that the way was clear. No word
was spoken except when, on gaining the summit of a stony knoll, Perrigo
whispered to Morton that they had crossed the boundary and were in the
United States. As they proceeded they moved more slowly, showing they
were nearing the enemy, and twice their scout signalled to them to
halt while he reconnoitred. The second time Perrigo went forward and
they waited while he scanned the enemy’s position. On returning, they
moved westward, when the accustomed sound of the tramp of a numerous
body of troops met the ear of Morton, followed by the commands of the
adjutant. Motioning to Morton to follow him, Perrigo cautiously crept
forward to a clump of undergrowth, and peering through it the American
camp was seen. To the right stood the cluster of wooden buildings which
formed the village of Four Corners, and on the fields that sloped up
from it southwards, shone peacefully in the setting sun long rows of
white tents. On a small field between the camp and the village two
regiments were being drilled; at one corner was a body of mounted
officers observing them. The woods, in which the British party lay
concealed, so closely hemmed in the thin line of buildings that formed
the village, that the parade-ground was not over 300 yards distant.
Morton scanned the troops as they went through their evolutions and
marked, with some complacency, that, although tall and wiry men, they
were slouchy in their movements and marched like dock-laborers. “Could
we not give those fellows a fright?” he whispered to Perrigo.
“If we were sure their patrols are not out we could. If they are, they
might flank us.”
“No danger,” interposed Hemlock, “see!” and he pointed to the
guard-house, where the men detailed for the night’s patrols were
waiting.
“All right,” answered Perrigo, “I will send two or three to creep round
to the bush on the right to cause a diversion.”
“Stay,” said Morton, “I want to get a closer view and Hemlock will go
with me.”
It was so decided upon, and while they picked their way to the west,
Perrigo busied himself in extending his little force along the edge
of the woods, so as to make their numbers appear formidable. The
most dangerous part of Morton’s movement was crossing two roads, but
Hemlock, who knew the ground thoroughly, selected parts where there
were bends, so that they could not be seen by travellers approaching
either way. When Hemlock dropped on all fours and crept he was followed
by Morton, who found he was at the edge of the field on which the drill
was in progress. The troops had gone through the routine movements and
were drawn up in line, awaiting the inspection of the general officer,
who, with his escort, was riding from the lower part of the field. A
stout, elderly man rode in advance on a splendid black horse. Hemlock
whispered it was General Hampton. As they drew nearer Morton started in
amaze, for among his staff, despite his handsome uniform, he recognized
the countenance of the spy he had twice shot at. His astonishment was
checked by a gurgling sound of anger from his companion, and turning he
saw that Hemlock had partly risen, grasping his musket as if about to
fire, his face so swollen with rage that the cords of the neck stood
out. “Stop,” said Morton, as he clutched his buckskin jacket, “if
we fire now while they are in rank we are lost; wait until they are
dismissed and in disorder.”
“I care not; thrice have I missed him of late; now he falls and
Hemlock is revenged.” He pulled the trigger, but the flint snapped
harmlessly, for the priming had been lost. The disappointment restored
his self-possession and he drew back with a scowl that made Morton’s
flesh creep. On the cavalcade of officers came, chatting unconcernedly,
and wheeled within twenty yards of where Morton stood. He had a good
view of the spy’s face, and he thought he had never seen one where
cunning and selfishness were so strongly marked. “A man who would kill
his mother if she stood in his way,” muttered Morton. “And for his
passing pleasure tear out the heart of a father,” added Hemlock in a
bitter tone. They noticed how haughtily Gen. Hampton bore himself and
how superciliously he glanced at the men as he passed up and down their
ranks. When he had finished, he put spurs to his horse and galloped
towards the house in the village where his quarters were established,
followed by his escort. The troops were then dismissed and as each
company filed away in the early twilight towards its respective camp,
Morton said “Now is our time.” Hemlock rose, drew himself to his full
height, seemed for a few seconds to be gathering strength, and then let
out a screech, so piercing and terrific that Morton, who had not before
heard the war-whoop, would not have believed a human being could make
such a sound. It was the signal to Perrigo’s men, and they answered
from different parts of the bush in similar fashion. The American
soldiers, on their way to their tents, halted in amaze, while from
new and unexpected quarters, rose the blood-curdling yell, giving the
impression that they were being surrounded from the north and west by
a horde of Indians, a foe of whom they were in mortal dread. Taken by
surprise, they broke and ran towards the camp, and Morton could see
the inmates of the tents swarming out and running to meet them, as if
to find out the cause of alarm. Hemlock and Morton were now loading
and firing as quickly as they could, the former never intermitting his
ear-piercing shrieks, while the edge of the bush to their left was
dotted with puffs of smoke from the guns of Perrigo’s band. “O for
five hundred more!” cried Morton in his excitement, “and we would rout
this army of cowards.” The confusion and clamor in the camp increased
and the contradictory orders of officers were paid no heed to by men
who only wanted to know where they could fly to escape the detested
Indians. Amid the excitement rang out a bugle, and turning whence the
sound came, Morton saw it was from the General’s headquarters and
that, to its summons, horsemen were urging their way. “Huh!” exclaimed
Hemlock, “these are scouts; some of them Indians. We must go, for they
will hold the roads.” With a final yell he plunged into the bush and
Morton followed. They had not gone far when Hemlock turned and grasped
his shoulder. As they stood, the hoofs of advancing horses were heard.
The sound came nearer and Morton guessed they were riding along the
east and west road in front of where he stood and which they had been
about to cross. The troop swept past and then the order “Halt!” was
shouted. “Louis, take five men and scour the bush from the river up
until you hear from the party who are searching the bush from above.
The screeching devils who hid here cannot escape between you. We will
patrol the road and shoot them if they do.” The motion of the men
ordered to dismount was heard.
“Quick,” whispered Hemlock, “or they will be upon us,” and facing
westward he led to the brink of what seemed to be a precipice, from the
foot of which rose the sound of rushing water. Hemlock slipped his gun
into his belt in front of him and did the same with Morton’s, then,
before he knew what was meant, Morton was grasped in his iron clutch,
unable to move, his head tucked into his breast, and with a wild fling
over the edge of the bank they went rolling and crashing downwards,
through the bushes and shrubs that faced it. On they rolled until a
final bounce threw them into a pool of the river. Without a moment’s
delay, Hemlock caught Morton’s right arm and dragged him a considerable
distance down the narrow and shallow stream behind a clump of bushes.
Breathless and excited by the rapid motion, Morton sank prone on the
turf, while Hemlock, laying aside the guns, which the water had
rendered useless, drew his tomahawk, which he held ready for use, while
he bent forward listening intently. In a few minutes Morton became
conscious of men stealthily approaching, and devoutly thanked God when
he perceived they were all on the other side of the river from where
they were concealed. On they came, searching every place of possible
concealment, with a rapidity that only children of the woods can
attain. Soon they were directly opposite and passed on. Hemlock relaxed
his strained attitude, drew a long breath, and sat down beside Morton.
“They did not think we had time to cross the river, but when they do
not find us they will come back on this side.”
“What shall we do next?” asked Morton.
“Wait till it is dark enough to creep across the road at the bridge.”
“And if they come back before then?”
“Fight them,” abruptly answered Hemlock.
In the narrow gorge where they lay the gloom quickly gathered, and
it soon grew so dark that Morton’s fears as to the searching-party
returning were relieved. When the last streak of day had disappeared,
Hemlock led the way, and they crept as quickly as the nature of the
ground would permit down the river, whose noisy brawl blotted out the
sound they made.
Coming out at a pond, where the water had been dammed to drive a small
mill, Hemlock stopped and listened. The road with its bridge was
directly in front, and it was likely guards were there posted. As they
watched, the door of a house opened, and a man came out with a lantern.
It was the miller going to the mill. As he swung the light its beams
shone along the road, failing to reveal a sentinel. When he passed into
the mill, Hemlock led the way under the shade of the trees that fringed
the mill-pond, crossed the road, and down into the rocky bed of the
stream on the other side. Pausing to let Morton gain his breath after
the run, he said in his ear, “We are safe now and can wait for the
moon.”
“Can’t we rejoin Perrigo?” asked Morton.
“No; scouts in woods over there; hide tonight and go back tomorrow.”
The strain of excitement over, Morton stretched himself on the ferns
that abounded and quickly fell asleep.