The result of the struggle was similar in effect to an American railway
accident of the first class. One officer and five privates were killed
on the Canadian side, one man was missing, and many were wounded. The
number of the Fenians killed will probably never be known. Several
were buried on the field of battle, others were taken back by O’Neill’s
brigade when they retreated.
Although the engagement ended as Yates had predicted, yet he was wrong
in his estimate of the Canadians. Volunteers are invariably underrated
by men of experience in military matters. The boys fought well, even
when they saw their ensign fall dead before them. If the affair had been
left entirely in their hands, the result might have been different--as
was shown afterward, when the volunteers, unimpeded by regulars, quickly
put down a much more formidable rising in the Northwest. But in the
present case they were hampered by their dependence on the British
troops, whose commander moved them with all the ponderous slowness of
real war, and approached O’Neill as if he had been approaching Napoleon.
He thus managed to get in a day after the fair on every occasion,
being too late for the fight at Ridgeway, and too late to capture any
considerable number of the flying Fenians at Fort Erie. The campaign, on
the Canadian side, was magnificently planned and wretchedly carried out.
The volunteers and regulars were to meet at a point close to where
the fight took place, but the British commander delayed two hours in
starting, which fact the Canadian colonel did not learn until too
late. These blunders culminated in a ghastly mistake on the field. The
Canadian colonel ordered his men to charge across an open field, and
attack the Fenian force in the woods--a brilliant but foolish move. To
the command the volunteers gallantly responded, but against stupidity
the gods are powerless. In the field they were appalled to hear the
order given to form square and receive cavalry. Even the schoolboys knew
the Fenians could have no cavalry.
Having formed their square, the Canadians found themselves the helpless
targets of the Fenians in the woods. If O’Neill’s forces had shot with
reasonable precision, they must have cut the volunteers to pieces. The
latter were victorious, if they had only known it; but, in this hopeless
square, panic seized them, and it was every man for himself; at the same
time, the Fenians were also retreating as fast as they could. This farce
is known as the battle of Ridgeway, and would have been comical had it
not been that death hovered over it. The comedy, without the tragedy,
was enacted a day or two before at a bloodless skirmish which took place
near a hamlet called Waterloo, which affray is dignified in Canadian
annals as the second battle of that name.
When the Canadian forces retreated, Renmark, who had watched the contest
with all the helpless anxiety of a noncombatant, sharing the danger, but
having no influence upon the result, followed them, making a wide detour
to avoid the chance shots which were still flying. He expected to come
up with the volunteers on the road, but was not successful. Through
various miscalculations he did not succeed in finding them until toward
evening. At first they told him that young Howard was with the company,
and unhurt, but further inquiry soon disclosed the fact that he had not
been seen since the fight. He was not among those who were killed or
wounded, and it was nightfall before Renmark realized that opposite his
name on the roll would be placed the ominous word “missing.” Renmark
remembered that the boy had said he would visit his home if he got
leave; but no leave had been asked for. At last Renmark was convinced
that young Howard was either badly wounded or dead. The possibility of
his desertion the professor did not consider for a moment, although he
admitted to himself that it was hard to tell what panic of fear might
come over a boy who, for the first time in his life, found bullets
flying about his ears.
With a heavy heart Renmark turned back and made his way to the fatal
field. He found nothing on the Canadian side. Going over to the woods,
he came across several bodies lying where they fell; but they were all
those of strangers. Even in the darkness he would have had no difficulty
in recognizing the volunteer uniform which he knew so well. He walked
down to the Howard homestead, hoping, yet fearing, to hear the boy’s
voice--the voice of a deserter. Everything was silent about the house,
although a light shone through an upper window, and also through one
below. He paused at the gate, not knowing what to do. It was evident
the boy was not here, yet how to find the father or brother, without
alarming Margaret or her mother, puzzled him. As he stood there the door
opened, and he recognized Mrs. Bartlett and Margaret standing in the
light. He moved away from the gate, and heard the older woman say:
“Oh, she will be all right in the morning, now that she has fallen into
a nice sleep. I wouldn’t disturb her to-night, if I were you. It is
nothing but nervousness and fright at that horrible firing. It’s all
over now, thank God. Good-night, Margaret.”
The good woman came through the gate, and then ran, with all the
speed of sixteen, toward her own home. Margaret stood in the doorway,
listening to the retreating footsteps. She was pale and anxious, but
Renmark thought he had never seen anyone so lovely; and he was startled
to find that he had a most un-professor-like longing to take her in his
arms and comfort her. Instead of bringing her consolation, he feared it
would be his fate to add to her anxiety; and it was not until he saw she
was about to close the door that he found courage to speak.
“Margaret,” he said.
The girl had never heard her name pronounced in that tone before, and
the cadence of it went direct to her heart, frightening her with an
unknown joy. She seemed unable to move or respond, and stood there,
with wide eyes and suspended breath, gazing into the darkness. Renmark
stepped into the light, and she saw his face was haggard with fatigue
and anxiety.
“Margaret,” he said again, “I want to speak with you a moment. Where is
your brother?”
“He has gone with Mr. Bartlett to see if he can find the horses. There
is something wrong,” she continued, stepping down beside him. “I can see
it in your face. What is it?”
“Is your father in the house?”
“Yes, but he is worried about mother. Tell me what it is. It is better
to tell me.”
Renmark hesitated.
“Don’t keep me in suspense like this,” cried the girl in a low but
intense voice. “You have said too much or too little. Has anything
happened to Henry?”
“No. It is about Arthur I wanted to speak. You will not be alarmed?”
“I _am_ alarmed. Tell, me quickly.” And the girl in her excitement laid
her hands imploringly on his.
“Arthur joined the volunteers in Toronto some time ago. Did you know
that?”
“He never told me. I understand--I think so, but I hope not. He was in
the battle today. Is he--has he been--hurt?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid so,” said Renmark hurriedly, now that the
truth had to come out; he realized, by the nervous tightening of the
girl’s unconscious grasp, how clumsily he was telling it. “He was with
the volunteers this morning. He is not with them now. They don’t know
where he is. No one saw him hurt, but it is feared he was, and that he
has been left behind. I have been all over the ground.”
“Yes, yes?”
“But I could not find him. I came here hoping to find him.”
“Take me to where the volunteers were,” she sobbed. “I know what has
happened. Come quickly.”
“Will you not put something on your head?”
“No, no. Come at once.” Then, pausing, she said: “Shall we need a
lantern?”
“No; it is light enough when we get out from the shadow of the house.”
Margaret ran along the road so swiftly that Renmark had some trouble
in keeping pace with her. She turned at the side road, and sped up the
gentle ascent to the spot where the volunteers had crossed it.
“Here is the place,” said Renmark.
“He could not have been hit in the field,” she cried breathlessly, “for
then he might have reached the house at the corner without climbing a
fence. If he was badly hurt, he would have been here. Did you search
this field?”
“Every bit of it. He is not here.”
“Then it must have happened after he crossed the road and the second
fence. Did you see the battle?”
“Yes.”
“Did the Fenians cross the field after the volunteers?”
“No; they did not leave the woods.”
“Then, if he was struck, it could not have been far from the other side
of the second fence. He would be the last to retreat; and that is why
the others did not see him,” said the girl, with confident pride in her
brother’s courage.
They crossed the first fence; the road, and the second fence, the girl
walking ahead for a few paces. She stopped, and leaned for a moment
against a tree. “It must have been about here,” she said in a voice
hardly audible. “Have you searched on this side?”
“Yes, for half a mile farther into the fields and woods.”
“No, no, not there; but down along the fence. He knew every inch of
this ground. If he were wounded here, he would at once try to reach our
house. Search down along the fence. I--I cannot go.”
Renmark walked along the fence, peering into the dark corners made
by the zigzag of the rails; and he knew, without looking back, that
Margaret, with feminine inconsistency, was following him. Suddenly she
darted past him, and flung herself down in the long grass, wailing out a
cry that cut Renmark like a knife.
The boy lay with his face in the grass, and his outstretched hand
grasping the lower rail of the fence. He had dragged himself this far,
and reached an insurmountable obstacle.
Renmark drew the weeping girl gently away, and rapidly ran his hand
over the prostrate lad. He quickly opened his tunic, and a thrill of joy
passed over him as he felt the faint beating of the heart.
“He is alive!” he cried. “He will get well, Margaret.” A statement
somewhat premature to make on so hasty an examination.
He rose, expecting a look of gratitude from the girl he loved. He was
amazed to see her eyes almost luminous in the darkness, blazing with
wrath.
“When did you know he was with the volunteers?”
“This morning--early,” said the professor, taken aback.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He asked me not to do so.”
“He is a mere boy. You are a man, and ought to have a man’s sense. You
had no right to mind what a boy said. It was my right to know, and your
duty to tell me. Through your negligence and stupidity my brother has
lain here all day--perhaps dying,” she added with a break in her angry
voice.
“If you had known--I didn’t know anything was wrong until I saw the
volunteers. I have not lost a moment since.”
“I should have known he was missing, without going to the volunteers.”
Renmark was so amazed at the unjust accusation, from a girl whom he had
made the mistake of believing to be without a temper of her own, that
he knew not what to say. He was, however, to have one more example of
inconsistency.
“Why do you stand there doing nothing, now that I have found him?” she
demanded.
It was on his tongue to say: “I stand here because you stand there
unjustly quarreling with me,” but he did not say it. Renmark was not a
ready man, yet he did, for once, the right thing.
“Margaret,” he said sternly, “throw down that fence.”
This curt command, delivered in his most schoolmastery manner, was
instantly obeyed. Such a task may seem a formidable one to set to a
young woman, but it is a feat easily accomplished in some parts of
America. A rail fence lends itself readily to demolition. Margaret
tossed a rail to the right, one to the left, and to the right again,
until an open gap took the place of that part of the fence. The
professor examined the young soldier in the meantime, and found his leg
had been broken by a musket ball. He raised him up tenderly in his arms,
and was pleased to hear a groan escape his lips. He walked through the
open gap and along the road toward the house, bearing the unconscious
form of his pupil. Margaret silently kept close to his side, her fingers
every now and then unconsciously caressing the damp, curly locks of her
brother.
“We shall have to get a doctor?” Her assertion was half an inquiry.
“Certainly.”
“We must not disturb anyone in the house. It is better that I should
tell you what to do now, so that we need not talk when we reach there.”
“We cannot help disturbing someone.”
“I do not think it will be necessary. If you will stay with Arthur, I
will go for the doctor, and no one need know.”
“I will go for the doctor.”
“You do not know the way. It is five or six miles. I will ride Gypsy,
and will soon be back.”
“But there are prowlers and stragglers all along the roads. It is not
safe for you to go alone.”
“It is perfectly safe. No horse that the stragglers have stolen can
overtake Gypsy. Now, don’t say anything more. It is best that I should
go. I will run on ahead, and enter the house quietly. I will take the
lamp to the room at the side, where the window opens to the floor. Carry
him around there. I will be waiting for you at the gate, and will show
you the way.”
With that the girl was off, and Renmark carried his burden alone. She
was waiting for him at the gate, and silently led the way round the
house, to where the door-window opened upon the bit of lawn under an
apple tree. The light streamed out upon the grass. He placed the boy
gently upon the dainty bed. It needed no second glance to tell Renmark
whose room he was in. It was decorated with those pretty little
knickknacks so dear to the heart of a girl in a snuggery she can call
her own.
“It is not likely you will be disturbed here,” she whispered, “until I
come back. I will tap at the window when I come with the doctor.”
“Don’t you think it would be better and safer for me to go? I don’t like
the thought of your going alone.”
“No, no. Please do just what I tell you. You do not know the way. I
shall be very much quicker. If Arthur should--should--wake, he will know
you, and will not be alarmed, as he might be if you were a stranger.”
Margaret was gone before he could say anything more, and Renmark sat
down, devoutly hoping no one would rap at the door of the room while he
was there.