NEWS FROM HOME
“LETTERS! letters! letters!”
This was the cry which circulated around Fort Oswego one morning some
weeks after Dave had reached the stronghold, in company with Raymond,
Shamer, and the two hunters the party had met in the forest.
Dave was slowly recovering from his hurt knee. The twist had proved more
severe than at first anticipated, and he had found it necessary to go to
the hospital more than once, to have it examined and dressed.
A courier from Albany had come in, with saddle-bags filled with letters
of all kinds, written on the thinnest of paper, so that they should not
weigh too much, for postage went by weight and was very high.
“A letter for me!” cried Dave, as it was handed to him. It was addressed
to Fort Niagara, but as some of the soldiers of that place were now
coming down to Oswego all the mail was sorted at this point before any
was forwarded further.
The letter proved to be one written by Dave’s father, and filled four
closely written sheets. In it James Morris said that the summer had been
a fairly prosperous one at the homestead. The new cabin, built to take
the place of that burnt by the Indians, was now in a comfortable
condition, and both he and his brother had had a large crop of corn and
hay, while garden vegetables had never done better. Rodney, the cripple,
had gone out considerable during the warm days, and had on one occasion
shot a deer drinking at the brook below the cabin, and had also brought
in more than one acceptable string of fish.
“Your Aunt Lucy is real well,” [the letter continued]. “She
awaited the coming of Nell with Sam Barringford with tremendous
anxiety, and when the two appeared on the trail, Sam on a horse
he had borrowed at Winchester and Nell on a pony, the good woman
almost fell dead with joy. We were all affected, and although
they came at ten in the morning, no more work was done that day,
excepting such as was necessary to make them comfortable. Sam
told his story in detail and then we listened to Nell, and I
must confess there was not a dry eye among us when she told of
the hardships among the redskins, and of how Jean Bevoir had
treated her. I sincerely hope that scoundrelly trader is sent to
prison for a long term of years, for he has earned it.
“The news that Fort Niagara was taken was hailed with joy by all
of us, and we are proud of the part you and Henry played. Both
of you must be careful and not run into needless danger. Now if
Generals Wolfe and Amherst can only do as well this cruel war
will soon come to an end, and then I can go and re-establish the
post on the Kinotah, where, so I have been told by an old
frontiersman, the game is now more plentiful than ever, since
the Indians have left the hunting ground to go to war with the
French.
“Sam wishes me to say that he is going to remain here and at
Winchester only about a week longer. Then he is going to rejoin
the army at Lake Ontario, to keep his eye on you and Henry.
Henry will be sent a letter by his father in this same mail.”
Dave read the letter over three times before he allowed it to drop in
his lap. In his mind’s eye he could picture the new cabin, and the joy
of the inmates over the safe arrival of little Nell and honest Sam
Barringford. And then a spasm of pain shot across his heart as he
thought of Henry.
“If he was killed what a shock it will prove!” he murmured with downcast
face. “Poor Henry! I’d give my right hand to know he was alive and
safe!”
“Bad news?” came from Raymond, who came up at that moment.
“No,” answered Dave, and went on: “It is a letter from home. They are
all well and send best wishes to me and to my cousin Henry. I was
thinking of how they will feel when they learn that—that——”
“Don’t take it so hard, Dave,” said the backwoodsman sympathetically.
“He may have escaped, after all. Just as strange things have happened.”
The young soldier shook his head doubtfully. “He had a hot fight—I don’t
see how he could escape if he was wounded. He is either dead or a
prisoner in some foul Canadian prison.”
Dave had been told to come to the hospital that afternoon at four
o’clock and have his knee looked after again. He was on hand promptly,
and the surgeon gave it a careful examination.
“It is doing nicely,” he said. “Be a bit careful of it for a week
longer, and it will be as well as ever.” And then he gave the young
soldier a box of salve to be used each night and morning.
Dave was about to leave the hospital when his attention was attracted to
a number of patients who had just been brought down in boats from Fort
Niagara. One of the men lying on a cot looked familiar, and drawing
closer he recognized Jean Bevoir.
The French trader looked pale and thin, for he had suffered not a
little. He looked at Dave curiously, and when the young soldier got the
chance he went up and spoke to the man.
“I suppose you know me, Bevoir?”
“Yees,” was the low reply. “You air Daf Morris, not so?”
“Yes, I am Dave Morris, a cousin to little Nell Morris.”
At these words the wounded man winced a little. Being a prisoner and in
the hospital had taken a good deal of his former bravado out of him.
“You haf made von great mistake,” he whined. “I am not ze bad man you
think, no.”
“I know all about that,” returned Dave coldly.
“Must I stand ze trial when I am well?”
“Certainly.”
“It ees verra hard on a poor man, yes, verra hard.”
“You brought it on yourself, Bevoir. You have caused our family a good
deal of trouble.”
“You are ze son of James Morris, not so?”
“I am—the same James Morris that you tried to rob of a trading-post on
the Kinotah,” answered the young soldier, bound that Jean Bevoir should
understand the situation fully.
“Zat was ze bad bus’ness, yes. I think ze tradin’-post mine. I haf ze
papairs to show of it.”
“The grant is my father’s, and always was,” retorted Dave.
“Do not be too sure,” answered the trader craftily. “I can bring ze men
to swear it ees mine—two, t’ree men.”
“Your title is no good.”
“We vill see ’bout zat. If I bring ze men ze court will say it ees mine,
and why not? I haf been dare long before your fadder, yes.”
There was a pause, for Dave did not know how to reply to this speech.
The French trader looked at the youth’s face searchingly.
“You listen,” he whispered, so that those around might not hear. “I tell
you something, yes.”
“What?” questioned Dave, wondering what was coming next.
“If you send me to ze prison for two, t’ree year what goot haf dat been?
Nodding, no nodding to you! I go and I come out, and ze trading-post
still belongs to Jean Bevoir, not to your fadder.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Still it ees so. But now listen—I haf ze gran’ plan—ze plan to do you
goot! Ze tradin’-post ees mine, but I gif it to you and your fadder,
yes, efery-t’ing, if——” And here the French trader paused.
“If what?” questioned Dave, although he guessed what was coming.
“If you say noddings ’bout me here—if you help me to get away,” answered
Jean Bevoir, in a still lower whisper.
“Help you to get away?” cried Dave.
“Sh-sh! Not so loud. Yes, help me. It vill be easy to do zat. An English
uniform, a dark night, and it ees done. You haf ze tradin’-post, and I
also gif you dis.”
As Jean Bevoir spoke he drew from his bosom a small bag tied with a long
string. Opening the bag he produced half a dozen English and French
pieces of gold, worth probably a hundred dollars all told.
“You will give me that money if I help you to get away?” said Dave
slowly.
“Yees, efery piece of it. Now vat you say? Am I not ze goot-hearted
man?”
“Good-hearted?” said Dave scornfully. “I think you are a first-class
villain, and if you weren’t in the hospital I’d do my best to knock you
down for your impudence.” Dave was speaking loudly. “You can keep your
dirty gold, and I shall do my best to put you in prison. And as for the
trading-post——”
“Here, here, what is the trouble?” burst in the voice of a surgeon, as
he strode up. “We allow no quarreling in this ward.”
“This rascal has been trying to bribe me into helping him to escape,”
answered Dave, his eyes flashing. “He wanted me to get him an English
uniform on the sly.”
“What! Is this true?” ejaculated the surgeon. “If it is, he deserves a
flogging instead of medical care.”
“No! no!” shrieked Jean Bevoir. “It ees all von gran’ mistake.” He
hurriedly stowed the gold in his bosom. “How can I escape ven I haf ze
shot in ze leg——”
“It is getting better fast,” responded the surgeon. “I fancy we had
better keep an eye on you, and by the end of the week I’ll pass you over
to the prison guard for safe keeping.”
“I hope you do, sir,” said Dave. “He is a great criminal as well as a
prisoner of war,” and he told a few of the particulars of Jean Bevoir’s
doings.
“I am glad you did not let him tempt you,” said the surgeon. “He is
certainly a rascal of the first water. But I don’t want you to talk to
him any longer. A quarrel will only excite the other patients here,” and
he led the way from the building. As he was going out, Dave looked back
to see what Bevoir was doing. The French trader scowled at him and shook
his fist in rage.
“He will hate me worse than ever for this,” reasoned the young soldier.
“But I am glad I showed him up to the surgeon. It would be a great pity
if he was allowed to slip away unnoticed.”
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