THE HOLE IN THE ICE
SAM BARRINGFORD kept his word, by starting on his search early the next
morning. Dave begged to go along, but the old frontiersman shook his
head.
“No, lad, I’d like your company, ye know that, but I can make time by
going it alone,” he said.
The week to follow was an anxious one to the youth. Day after day he
looked for Barringford’s return. In the meantime, he nursed his twisted
knee faithfully, until that member seemed as strong and limber as ever.
The young soldier was now back in the ranks, and it was whispered about
that he would soon be made an officer. But this honor he declined.
“Give the older heads a chance,” he said. “I am content to do my duty as
a private,” and Raymond was elected in his stead.
On the eighth day Sam Barringford came back, thoroughly tired out by a
tramp that had taken him over many miles of the territory covering the
lake front.
“Didn’t see anybuddy but a couple o’ redskins,” he said. “They were old
men and could tell nuthin’.”
“And you found no trace?” faltered Dave.
“Nary a trace, lad. It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped.” And
Barringford’s voice almost broke in spite of his effort to control it.
Drilling was now going on every morning and afternoon, for it was felt
that the Colonial militia must be brought up as far as possible to the
standard of the royal troops. In the militia men were constantly coming
and going, suiting their own convenience in spite of all the officers
could do to restrain them.
“We’ll not be able to do much more this season,” remarked Barringford to
Dave, one day. “It won’t be long before winter is on us and then the
campaign will have to come to an end.”
One day there came the glorious news of Wolfe’s victory on the Plains of
Abraham, followed almost immediately by the news that Quebec had been
taken.
The soldiers went wild with excitement, and the officers did not attempt
to restrain them. In the evening bonfires were lit and the general
jollification lasted until the next morning.
“That is the end of French rule in America,” said Raymond. “Now if
Amherst can only advance we’ll soon have the garlic-eaters on the run.”
But, as already mentioned in these pages, Amherst’s advance was so slow
that the storms of early winter drove his ships on Lake Champlain back
and he was compelled to go into quarters for the season at Crown Point,
leaving the British army at Quebec to take care of itself.
“I must write home and tell of this victory,” said Dave.
“But—but—Henry——”
“Better wait a bit longer, Dave,” said Barringford. “If the French are
licked we may learn somethin’ o’ their prisoners, an’ Henry may be among
’em.”
Two days later came a pony express with letters for many of the
soldiers, some from home and some from others in the various armies of
the English.
“A letter from Quebec!” murmured Dave, as he received the epistle. His
hand shook so that he could scarcely read the address. That handwriting
looked familiar. Oh, if only it was from Henry! He breathed a silent
prayer, and then broke the seal.
“Who is it from?” questioned Barringford, who was standing near.
“Oh, Sam, it’s from Henry! He is alive! Think of it!” The tears of joy
stood in the young soldier’s eyes. “He was with Wolfe—after escaping
from the French—he and Silvers. But Silvers, poor man, was shot dead in
the battle,” he went on, reading rapidly.
“Is Henry all right?”
“Yes, and he says he has learned that I am safe, too. A messenger from
Oswego brought the news some time ago.”
“Lad, ye can thank God for His many marcies,” said Barringford
reverently.
“Yes, Sam, and I do, from the bottom of my heart,” returned Dave.
The letter was a long one, and the two walked to an out-of-the-way spot,
where Dave read it aloud, while the frontiersman listened with close
attention. Henry gave many of the particulars of his capture and escape,
and also mentioned that he was now doing guard duty in Quebec. He added
that he had sent home a letter, telling of his safety, and that for the
present he was going to remain where he was, and hoped that sooner or
later Dave and the command to which he was attached would join him.
“This is the best news yet,” cried Dave, after the letter had been read
twice. “Sam, my heart is as light as air!”
“So is mine, Dave. It’s a heavy weight removed, eh? I could ’most dance
a jig.”
“What a big fight it must have been, and how sad to think that General
Wolfe had to die just as he accomplished what he had planned so many
months.”
“’Twas better to die thus than to have the fate of General Montcalm,”
replied Barringford. “To die in victory is nothing to dying in defeat.”
“I guess you must be right.” Dave paused for a moment. “Now Quebec is
taken, what do you think will be the next move for our army to make?”
“That is hard to say, lad. Maybe the French will come back at Quebec
before long. But come, let us get back to the camp-fire. It is too cold
to stay here, even while discussin’ such good news.”
Barringford was right about it being cold. It was the middle of
September and the air was nipping. A few days later came a cold rain
that seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of Dave’s bones, for the lad
from Virginia was not used to such a climate as that of upper New York
State.
“Ugh, but it’s awful!” he said, as he came in from two hours of guard
duty, with his clothing soaked. “It’s enough to give one his death of
cold.”
“Strip yourself, and rub down good,” said Barringford. “It certainly is
rough on a fellow o’ Southern blood.”
“I hope the rain don’t last.”
“This is what we call a pond-filler, Dave. As soon as all the ponds fill
up it will git colder, mark what I tell ye.”
Barringford’s prediction was correct. The rain came down until all the
ponds and streams were overflowing and then the storm came to an end. A
week after this came a flurry of snow, followed by a high wind which
blew down several old trees in that vicinity.
“Winter’s coming now,” said more than one, and the officers lost no time
in giving the soldiers directions for going into winter quarters. It was
felt by all that military operations must, for the time being, come to
an end.
At first Dave had thought to return home for the winter. But Barringford
did not care to make another trip to Wills’ Creek and the young soldier
was not in the humor to go alone or in the company of strangers.
“Might as well settle down right here,” said Barringford. “We can fix
ourselves a putty comfortable hut, and there will be sure to be plenty
o’ huntin’ and fishin’ for whomsoever wants it.”
Many of the soldiers were quartered in the fort and in the trading-posts
scattered about, but there was not room for all, and the others had to
build themselves shelters of boards and canvas. Barringford, Raymond,
and Dave formed a party by themselves, and it was not long before the
trio completed a shelter of which they were justly proud.
The hut was about twelve feet square, of rough logs and tree branches,
interlaced with willow withes. On one corner were several rocks and an
opening, where they could build a camp-fire, if they wished, and three
couches of cedar branches were also provided, filling the air of the
shelter with a sweet and wholesome smell.
“Now we are about fixed fer the winter,” said Barringford. “When the
snow comes, we can bank some up against the sides, to keep out the wind,
and then we’ll be as snug as bugs under a hearthstone.”
“I don’t believe provisions will be any too plentiful, with so many of
the soldiers coming in from Fort Niagara and other points,” said
Raymond. “But as we are all good shots, and know something about fishing
through holes in the ice, we ought not to go hungry.”
It was not long after the shelter was completed that winter came upon
them in earnest. One evening a light snow began to fall and in the
morning it was snowing more heavily than ever. This kept up for two days
and nights, leaving the ground covered to the depth of a foot and a
half.
“Now we can bank up the sides of the hut,” said Barringford, and this
was done without delay. They also went into the woods and helped to cut
large quantities of firewood, which was brought to the fort and the camp
on drags drawn by horses.
The snow was followed by a spell of clear, cold weather, which to Dave
was far more acceptable than the rain had been. The streams in the
vicinity were now frozen up and also a good part of the lake front.
“I’d like to try fishing through the ice,” said Dave, one morning when
there was nothing for him and Barringford to do.
“Jest the thing, Dave,” replied the old frontiersman. “I’ve an idee
they’ll bite well to-day.”
Preparations were soon made, and they passed along the Oswego River to
where there was something of a sheltered cove. Here the ice was not more
than six inches in thickness, and they made good-sized holes without
much trouble.
Barringford knew exactly how to go about fixing their lines, and Dave
stood by while the frontiersman baited to his satisfaction.
“You take the upper hole and I’ll take the lower,” said Barringford,
when the lines were ready. “We’ll see who can ketch the fust one.”
David did as told, and having allowed his hook to go down almost to the
bottom, waited patiently for a bite.
“Ye want to keep movin’ it around a bit!” shouted Barringford. “A fish
likes to snatch a bait on the fly. Ef ye——”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a pull and a splash, followed by a
flopping on the ice. The fish tried its best to get back into the hole,
but Barringford was too quick for it and speedily strung it on the end
of a twig he had cut while coming over to the cove.
From that time on fishing went forward with more or less success for two
hours, when each had a mess of about twenty, mostly of fair size.
“Not bad by any means,” declared Barringford, as he surveyed the catch.
“But they’ll be fatter in a month or six weeks more, an’ sweeter, too.”
“Whoop! I’ve got another!” cried Dave, a second later. There came a
savage tug on his line. “Must be a big one, Sam!”
“Perhaps you had better play him a bit,” suggested the frontiersman, but
just then Dave brought the catch to light—an ugly water snake of a
darkish color and with cold, staring eyes.
“My stars!” ejaculated Dave, and as the snake whipped toward him, he
stepped back. Then the snake, somewhat dazed at being brought to the
surface at this season of the year, made another turn, and struck at
Dave’s foot. The young soldier gave a jump, and, like a flash, slipped
into the hole in the ice. He tried to clutch the edge of the hole with
his hands, but it was too slippery, and before Barringford could grab
him, he had disappeared from view, and the water snake behind him.
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