AN ADVENTURE IN CANADA.
[Illustration: Mr. Malone and His Friend]
Towards the close of the last war with America, a small detachment of
military occupied the little block house of Fort Peak, which, about
eight miles from the Falls of Niagara, formed the last outpost on the
frontier. The Fort, in itself inconsiderable, was only of importance as
commanding a part of the river where it was practicable to ford, and
where the easy ascent of the bank offered a safe situation for the
enemy to cross over, whenever they felt disposed to carry the war into
our territory.
There having been, however, no threat of invasion in this quarter, and
the natural strength of the position being considerable, a mere handful
of men, with two subaltern officers, were allotted for this duty—such
being conceived ample to maintain it till the arrival of succour from
head-quarters, then at Little York, on the opposite side of the lake.
The officers of this party were our old acquaintance Tom O’Flaherty,
and our newly-made one Maurice Malone.
Whatever may be the merits of commanding officers, one virtue they
certainly can lay small claim to—viz. any insight into character, or at
least any regard for the knowledge. Seldom are two men sent off on
detachment duty to some remote quarter, to associate daily and hourly
for months together, that they are not, by some happy chance, the very
people who never, as the phrase is, “took to each other” in their
lives. The grey-headed, weather-beaten, disappointed “Peninsular” is
coupled with the essenced and dandified Adonis of the corps; the man of
literary tastes and cultivated pursuits, with the empty headed, ill
informed youth, fresh from Harrow or Westminster. This case offered no
exception to the rule; for though there were few men possessed of more
assimilating powers than O’Flaherty, yet certainly his companion did
put the faculty to the test, for any thing more unlike him, there never
existed. Tom all good humour and high spirits—making the best of every
thing—never non-plussed—never taken aback—perfectly at home, whether
flirting with a Lady Charlotte in her drawing-room, or crossing a
grouse mountain in the highlands—sufficiently well read to talk on any
ordinary topic—and always ready-witted enough to seem more so. A
thorough sportsman, whether showing forth in the “park” at Melton,
whipping a trout-stream in Wales, or filling a country-house with black
cock and moor-fowl; an unexceptionable judge of all the good things in
life, from a pretty ancle to a well hung tilbury—from the odds at
hazard to the “Comet vintage.” Such, in brief, was Tom. Now his
confrere was none of these; he had been drafted from the Galway militia
to the line, for some election services rendered by his family to the
government candidate; was of a saturnine and discontented habit; always
miserable about some trifle or other, and never at rest till he had
drowned his sorrows in Jamaica rum—which, since the regiment was
abroad, he had copiously used as a substitute for whiskey. To such an
extent had this passion gained upon him, that a corporal’s guard was
always in attendance whenever he dined out, to convey him home to the
barracks.
The wearisome monotony of a close garrison, with so ungenial a
companion, would have damped any man’s spirits but O’Flaherty’s. He,
however, upon this, as other occasions in life, rallied himself to make
the best of it; and by short excursions within certain prescribed
limits along the river side, contrived to shoot and fish enough to get
through the day, and improve the meagre fare of his mess-table. Malone
never appeared before dinner—his late sittings at night requiring all
the following day to recruit him for a new attack upon the rum bottle.
Now, although his seeing so little of his brother officer was any thing
but unpleasant to O’Flaherty, yet the ennui of such a life was
gradually wearing him, and all his wits were put in requisition to
furnish occupation for his time. Never a day passed without his praying
ardently for an attack from the enemy; any alternative, any reverse,
had been a blessing compared with his present life. No such spirit,
however, seemed to animate the Yankee troops; not a soldier was to be
seen for miles around, and every straggler that passed the Fort
concurred in saying that the Americans were not within four day’s march
of the frontier.
Weeks passed over, and the same state of things remaining unchanged,
O’Flaherty gradually relaxed some of his strictness as to duty; small
foraging parties of three and four being daily permitted to leave the
Fort for a few hours, to which they usually returned laden with wild
turkeys and fish—both being found in great abundance near them.
Such was the life of the little garrison for two or three long summer
months—each day so resembling its fellow, that no difference could be
found.
As to how the war was faring, or what the aspect of affairs might be,
they absolutely knew nothing. Newspapers never reached them; and
whether from having so much occupation at head-quarters, or that the
difficulty of sending letters prevented, their friends never wrote a
line; and thus they jogged on, a very vegetable existence, till thought
at last was stagnating in their brains, and O’Flaherty half envied his
companion’s resource in the spirit flask.
Such was the state of affairs at the Fort, when one evening O’Flaherty
appeared to pace the little rampart that looked towards Lake Ontario,
with an appearance of anxiety and impatience strangely at variance with
his daily phlegmatic look. It seemed that the corporal’s party he had
despatched that morning to forage, near the “Falls,” had not returned,
and already were four hours later than their time away.
Every imaginable mode of accounting for their absence suggested itself
to his mind. Sometimes he feared that they had been attacked by the
Indian hunters, who were far from favourably disposed towards their
poaching neighbours. Then, again, it might be merely that they had
missed their track in the forest; or could it be that they had ventured
to reach Goat Island in a canoe, and had been carried down the rapids.
Such were the torturing doubts that passed as some shrill squirrel, or
hoarse night owl pierced the air with a cry, and then all was silent
again. While thus the hours went slowly by, his attention was attracted
by a bright light in the sky. It appeared as if part of the heavens
were reflecting some strong glare from beneath, for as he looked, the
light, at first pale and colourless, gradually deepened into a rich
mellow hue, and at length, through the murky blackness of the night, a
strong clear current of flame rose steadily upwards from the earth, and
pointed towards the sky. From the direction, it must have been either
at the Falls, or immediately near them; and now the horrible conviction
flashed upon his mind that the party had been waylaid by the Indians,
who were, as is their custom, making a war feast over their victims.
Not an instant was to be lost. The little garrison beat to arms; and,
as the men fell in, O’Flaherty cast his eyes around, while he selected
a few brave fellows to accompany him. Scarcely had the men fallen out
from the ranks, when the sentinel at the gate was challenged by a
well-known voice, and in a moment more the corporal of the foraging
party was among them. Fatigue and exhaustion had so overcome him, that
for some minutes he was speechless. At length he recover sufficiently
to give the following brief account:—
The little party having obtained their supply of venison above
Queenston, were returning to the Fort, when they suddenly came upon a
track of feet, and little experience in forest life soon proved that
some new arrivals had reached the hunting grounds, for on examining
them closely, they proved neither to be Indian tracks, nor yet those
made by the shoes of the Fort party. Proceeding with caution to trace
them backwards for three or four miles, they reached the bank of the
Niagara river, above the whirlpools, where the crossing is most easily
effected from the American side. The mystery was at once explained: it
was a surprise party of the Yankees, sent to attack Fort Peak; and now
the only thing to be done was to hasten back immediately to their
friends, and prepare for their reception.
With this intent they took the river path as the shortest, but had not
proceeded far when their fears were confirmed; for in a little
embayment of the bank they perceived a party of twenty blue coats, who,
with their arms piled, were lying around as if waiting for the hour of
attack. The sight of this party added greatly to their alarm, for they
now perceived that the Americans had divided their force—the
foot-tracks first seen being evidently those of another division. As
the corporal and his few men continued, from the low and thick
brushwood, to make their reconnaisance of the enemy, they observed with
delight that they were not regulars, but a militia force. With this one
animating thought, they again, with noiseless step, regained the
forest, and proceeded upon their way. Scarcely, however, had they
marched a mile, when the sound of voices and loud laughter apprised
them that another party was near, which, as well as they could observe
in the increasing gloom, was still larger than the former. They were
now obliged to make a considerable circuit, and advance still deeper
into the forest—their anxiety hourly increasing, lest the enemy should
reach the Fort before themselves. In this dilemma it was resolved that
the party should separate—the corporal determining to proceed alone by
the river bank, while the others, by a detour of some miles, should
endeavour to learn the force of the Yankees, and, as far as they could,
their mode of attack. From that instant the corporal knew no more; for,
after two hours’ weary exertion, he reached the Fort, which, had it
been but another mile distant, his strength had not held out for him to
attain.
However gladly poor O’Flaherty might have hailed such information under
other circumstances, now it came like a thunderbolt upon him. Six of
his small force were away, perhaps ere this made prisoners by the
enemy; the Yankees, as well as he could judge, were a numerous party;
and he himself totally without a single adviser—for Malone had dined,
and was, therefore, by this time in that pleasing state of
indifference, in which he could only recognise an enemy, in the man
that did not send round the decanter.
In the half indulged hope that his state might permit some faint
exercise of the reasoning faculty, O’Flaherty walked towards the small
den they had designated as the mess-room, in search of his brother
officer.
As he entered the apartment, little disposed as he felt to mirth at
such a moment, the tableau before him was too ridiculous not to laugh
at. At one side of the fire-place sat Malone, his face florid with
drinking, and his eyeballs projecting. Upon his head was a small Indian
skull cap, with two peacock feathers, and a piece of scarlet cloth
which hung down behind. In one hand he held a smoking goblet of rum
punch, and in the other a long, Indian Chibook pipe. Opposite to him,
but squatted upon the floor, reposed a red Indian, that lived in the
Fort as a guide, equally drunk, but preserving, even in his liquor, an
impassive, grave aspect, strangely contrasting with the high excitement
of Malone’s face. The red man wore Malone’s uniform coat, which he had
put on back foremost—his head-dress having, in all probability been
exchanged for it, as an amicable courtesy between the parties. There
they sat, looking fixedly at each other; neither spoke, nor even
smiled—the rum bottle, which at brief intervals passed from one to the
other, maintained a friendly intercourse that each was content with.
To the hearty fit of laughing of O’Flaherty, Malone replied by a look
of drunken defiance, and then nodded to his red friend, who returned
the courtesy. As poor Tom left the room, he saw that nothing was to be
hoped for in this quarter, and determined to beat the garrison to arms
without any further delay. Scarcely had he closed the door behind him,
when a sudden thought flashed through his brain. He hesitated, walked
forward a few paces, stopped again, and calling out to the corporal,
said—
“You are certain they were militia?”
“Yes, sir; quite sure.”
“Then, by Jove, I have it,” cried O’Flaherty. “If they should turn out
to be the Buffalo fencibles, we may get through this scrape better than
I hoped for.”
“I believe you are right, sir; for I heard one of the men as I passed
observe, ‘what will they say in Buffalo when it’s over?’.”
“Send Mathers here, corporal; and do you order four rank and file, with
side-arms to be in readiness immediately.”
“Mathers, you have heard the news,” said O’Flaherty, as the sergeant
entered. “Can the Fort hold out against such a force as Jackson
reports? You doubt; well, so do I; so let’s see what’s to be done. Can
you remember, was it not the Buffalo militia that were so tremendously
thrashed by the Delawares last autumn?”
“Yes, sir, they chased them for two days and nights, and had they not
reached the town of Buffalo, the Delawares would not have left a scalp
in the regiment.”
“Can you recollect the chief’s name—it was Carran—something, eh?”
“Caudan-dacwagae.”
“Exactly. Where is he supposed to be now?”
“Up in Detroit, sir, they say, but no one knows. Those fellows are here
to-day, and there to-morrow.”
“Well then, sergeant, here’s my plan.” Saying these words, O’Flaherty
proceeded to walk towards his quarters, accompanied by the sergeant,
with whom he conversed for some time eagerly—occasionally replying, as
it appeared, to objections, and offering explanations as the other
seemed to require them. The colloquy lasted half an hour—and although
the veteran sergeant seemed difficult of conviction, it ended by his
saying, as he left the room,
“Well, sir, as you say, it can only come to hard knocks at worst. Here
goes—I’ll send off the scout party to make the fires and choose the men
for the out picquets, for no time is to be lost.”
In about an hour’s time from the scene I have mentioned, a number of
militia officers, of different grades, were seated round a bivouac
fire, upon the bank of the Niagara river. The conversation seemed of an
angry nature, for the voices of the speakers were loud and irrascible,
and their gestures evidenced a state of high excitement.
“I see,” said one, who seemed the superior of the party—“I see well
where this will end. We shall have another Queenston affair, as we had
last fall with the Delawares.”
“I only say,” replied another, “that if you wish our men to stand fire
to-morrow morning, the less you remind them of the Delawares the
better. What is that noise? Is not that a drum beating?”
The party at these words sprung to their legs, and stood in an attitude
of listening for some seconds.
“Who goes there?” sung out a sentinel from his post; and then, after a
moment’s delay, added—“Pass flag of truce to Major Brown’s quarters.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when three officers in scarlet,
preceded by a drummer with a white flag, stood before the American
party.
“To whom may I address myself?” said one of the British—who, I may
inform my reader, en passant, was no other than O’Flaherty—“To whom may
I address myself as the officer in command?”
“I am Major Brown,” said a short, plethoric little man, in a blue
uniform and round hat—“And who are you?”
“Major O’Flaherty, of his majesty’s fifth foot,” said Tom, with a very
sonorous emphasis on each word—“the bearer of a flag of truce and an
amicable proposition from Major-General Allen, commanding the garrison
of Fort Peak.”
The Americans, who were evidently taken by surprise at their intentions
of attack being known, were silent, while he continued—
“Gentlemen, it may appear somewhat strange that a garrison, possessing
the natural strength of a powerful position—supplied with abundant
ammunition and every muniment of war—should despatch a flag of truce on
the eve of an attack, in preference to waiting for the moment, when a
sharp and well-prepared reception might best attest its vigilance and
discipline. But the reasons for this step are soon explained. In the
first place, you intend a surprise. We have been long aware of your
projected attack. Our spies have tracked you from your crossing the
river above the whirlpool to your present position. Every man of your
party is numbered by us; and, what is still more, numbered by our
allies—yes, gentlemen, I must repeat it, ‘allies’—though, as a Briton,
I blush at the word. Shame and disgrace for ever be that man’s portion,
who first associated the honourable usages of war with the atrocious
and bloody cruelties of the savage. Yet so it is: the Delawares of the
hills”—here the Yankees exchanged very peculiar looks—“have this
morning arrived at Fort Peak, with orders to ravage the whole of your
frontier, from Fort George to Lake Erie. They brought us the
information of your approach, and their chief is, while I speak, making
an infamous proposition, by which a price is to paid for every scalp he
produces in the morning. Now, as the general cannot refuse to
co-operate with the savages, without compromising himself with the
commander-in-chief, neither can he accept of such assistance without
some pangs of conscience. He has taken the only course open to him: he
has despatched myself and my brother officers here”—O’Flaherty glanced
at two privates dressed up in his regimentals—“to offer you terms”—
O’Flaherty paused when he arrived thus far, expecting that the opposite
party would make some reply; but they continued silent: when suddenly,
from the dense forest, there rung forth a wild and savage yell, that
rose and fell several times, like the pibroch of the highlander, and
ended at last in a loud whoop, that was echoed and re-echoed again and
again for several seconds after.
“Hark!” said O’Flaherty, with an accent of horror—“Hark! the war-cry of
the Delawares! The savages are eager for their prey. May it yet be time
enough to rescue you from such a fate! Time presses—our terms are
these—as they do not admit of discussion, and must be at once accepted
or rejected, to your own ear alone can I impart them.”
Saying which, he took Major Brown aside, and, walking apart from the
others, led him, by slow steps, into the forest. While O’Flaherty
continued to dilate upon the atrocities of Indian war, and the
revengeful character of the savages, he contrived to be always
advancing towards the river side, till at length the glare of a fire
was perceptible through the gloom. Major Brown stopped suddenly, and
pointed in the direction of the flame.
“It is the Indian picquet,” said O’Flaherty, calmly; “and as the facts
I have been detailing may be more palpable to your mind, you shall see
them with your own eyes. Yes, I repeat it, you shall, through the cover
of this brushwood, see Caudan-dacwagae himself—for he is with them in
person.”
As O’Flaherty said this, he led Major Brown, now speechless with
terror, behind a massive cork tree, from which spot they could look
down upon the river side, where in a small creek sat five or six
persons in blankets, and scarlet head-dresses; their faces streaked
with patches of yellow and red paint, to which the glare of the fire
lent fresh horror. In the midst sat one, whose violent gestures and
savage cries gave him the very appearance of a demon, as he resisted
with all his might the efforts of the others to restrain him, shouting
like a maniac all the while, and struggling to rise.
“It is the chief,” said O’Flaherty; “he will wait no longer. We have
bribed the others to keep him quiet, if possible, a little time; but I
see they cannot succeed.”
A loud yell of triumph from below interrupted Tom’s speech. The
infuriated savage—who was no other than Mr. Malone—having obtained the
rum bottle, for which he was fighting with all his might—his temper not
being improved in the struggle by occasional admonitions from the red
end of a cigar, applied to his naked skin by the other Indians—who were
his own soldiers acting under O’Flaherty’s orders.
“Now,” said Tom, “that you have convinced yourself, and can satisfy
your brother officers, will you take your chance? or will you accept
the honoured terms of the General—pile your arms, and retreat beyond
the river before day-break? Your muskets and ammunition will offer a
bribe to the cupidity of the savage, and delay his pursuit till you can
reach some place of safety.”
Major Brown heard the proposal in silence, and at last determined upon
consulting his brother officers.
“I have outstaid my time,” said O’Flaherty, “but stop; the lives of so
many are at stake, I consent.” Saying which, they walked on without
speaking, till they arrived where the others were standing around the
watch-fire.
As Brown retired to consult with the officers, Tom heard with pleasure
how much his two companions had worked upon the Yankees’ fears, during
his absence, by details of the vindictive feelings of the Delawares,
and their vows to annihilate the Buffalo militia.
Before five minutes they had decided. Upon a solemn pledge from
O’Flaherty that the terms of the compact were to be observed as he
stated them, they agreed to march with their arms to the ford, where,
having piled them, they were to cross over, and make the best of their
way home.
By sunrise the next morning, all that remained of the threatened attack
on Fort Peak, were the smouldering ashes of some wood fires—eighty
muskets piled in the fort—and the yellow ochre, and red stripes that
still adorned the countenance of the late Indian chief,—but now snoring
Lieutenant Maurice Malone.