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 wall of 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 close quarters. 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 of that 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 brief October 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 their campfires. 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 deep to 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
light of 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
by our 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 causing the 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 few
groans, 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,
and as 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 inlet of 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 was agreed 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 troops were 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.