A GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK
FORTUNATELY for Henry, the road through the timber was on a slight
ridge, which the wind had swept almost free of snow. Here and there the
elements had torn down branches, and even trees themselves, but the
horse the young soldier rode appeared to know something of
steeplechasing and took every obstruction without difficulty.
For a distance of half a mile the way was straight, and looking back he
saw the four troopers plainly. They were riding about as fast as
himself, but no faster.
“They won’t catch me just yet,” he reasoned, as he sped onward. “And
perhaps I’ll soon come to some cross-roads, where I can give them the
slip.”
Once came another shot but it did not reach the fugitive, and only made
him urge his steed along at a better speed. Then the road began to lead
downward from the ridge, and soon Henry found his horse plowing and
panting through snow a foot deep, and steadily growing deeper.
Here was cause for fresh alarm, and now the youth’s heart beat
anxiously. A turn had hidden the troopers from view, but he could hear
them shouting to each other, for the horse of one had stumbled over a
log, and thrown his rider headlong into a snowbank.
“They’ve got a chance to get up to me now,” thought Henry, as he gazed
at his almost exhausted animal. “Oh, if only we could get to some spot
where there wasn’t so much snow!”
Another turn was ahead, and Henry made for this, hoping it would
disclose something to his advantage. It did, for here were three other
roads, running in as many different directions.
“Too bad to give up the horse, but I guess it has got to be done,” he
thought. He turned the horse up one of the side roads and brought him to
a standstill under a low-hanging tree. Then he leaped into the branches
and gave the steed a smart slap with the flat side of the sabre. “Up
with you!” he cried. “Get along!”
Stung by the blow and urged on by the words, the horse gave a leap
forward, and started off at a good pace that soon took him out of sight.
Then Henry climbed up into the tree and lay among the branches, hardly
daring to breathe.
It was not long before the young soldier heard the French troopers at
the cross-roads. They came to a halt, examined the ground, and then put
on after the riderless horse, passing directly beneath the tree in which
the fugitive was hiding.
“That was a lucky idea,” thought Henry, and as soon as the party had
passed he slid down out of the tree. He did not take to the road at
once, but made a détour through the brushwood, to a point on one of the
other roads a quarter of a mile away. Then he struck out bravely once
again in the direction of the river.
Henry found trudging along with a knapsack on his back far from easy,
and at the end of an hour he was glad enough to seek the shelter of some
rocks and trees and rest. The sun was shining brightly, and at a long
distance he could make out the frozen surface of the St. Lawrence,
glistening in patches like a mirror.
“I suppose I may as well make for the river and cross it here, instead
of farther up,” he mused. “I’ve got to get to some place before all my
supplies give out.”
He took his time over the rations which the knapsack afforded, keeping
his eyes and ears open for the possible sound of pursuers. But nobody
came near him, and the country for miles around looked absolutely
deserted.
The distance to the river was fully as far as it looked, and before half
the space was covered Henry was almost exhausted. He had found a
deserted farmhouse, and here he rested again, and then resolved to
remain at the farmhouse over night.
“One day won’t make any difference,” he reasoned.
The farmhouse had been looted of all of value, yet a rude table, two
benches, and a few old cooking utensils remained, and close at hand was
some firewood ready for use. Growing reckless again, the youth started
up a fire, and warmed up some of his rations, and also his
half-stiffened body.
Slowly the day faded from sight and the stars began to glitter in the
sky. It was clear and quiet, and never had the young soldier felt so
lonely. His thoughts traveled to home and then to Dave. What would his
cousin think of him when he heard of what had happened?
“I’m sure Dave won’t think I turned thief,” he reflected. “But that
won’t help me any. Oh, was ever a fellow in such a fix before!”
It was nearly midnight when Henry heard a strange noise outside of the
old farmhouse. He leaped up from his position in front of the fire and
gazed out of a window. In the dim light he saw three men approaching on
horseback.
“The troopers!” he told himself. He wanted to flee, but there was not
time. Gathering up his pistol and saber he fled up the narrow stairs
leading to the sloping room above.
In a few minutes the door below was thrown open, and the three men
entered. They were talking earnestly, but the sight of the smoldering
fire cut short the conversation. Some excited questions followed, and
presently one of the men opened the door leading to the stairs.
“Is anybody up there?” he demanded in French.
Instead of replying, Henry tiptoed his way to a corner of the room. Here
was a sheltered nook, between the chimney and the sloping roof, and he
squeezed himself into this.
“I say, is there anybody up there?” demanded the Frenchman once more.
He waited a moment and then slammed the door shut. More talking
followed, but only an indistinct murmur reached Henry’s ears. The young
soldier scarcely dared to breathe, and he tried in vain to think of what
would be best to do next.
“I reckon I’ll have to drop from the window, just as I was going to do
at the barn,” thought the youth, but before he could put the plan into
execution, the door below was thrown open once more and the Frenchman
reappeared, this time with a torch taken from the fire, which he and his
companions had started up again.
“I’m in for it now,” Henry told himself, and he was right. In a moment
more the Frenchman discovered him and drew a pistol.
“Who are you?” he demanded, in his native tongue.
“Don’t fire,” answered Henry.
“Ha, you are von Englishmans, hey?” cried the Frenchman, and now Henry
saw that he was dressed in civilian’s clothes.
“Yes, I am an English soldier,” answered Henry recklessly. “What do you
want of me?”
“You come de stairs down, an’ you make me no trouble,” was the reply.
As there was no help for it, Henry descended to the ground floor of the
farmhouse. The talking had brought the others to their feet and each
Frenchman had a pistol drawn as he appeared.
“Jean Bevoir!” gasped Henry, as his eyes rested on one of the newcomers.
“Ha, you know me?” came in return. The trader gazed at Henry sharply,
and uttered an imprecation in French. “It ees zat Henry Morris!”
“Henry Morris?” repeated the man who had remained below with Bevoir.
“_Oui_, Chalette;” and then he continued in French: “Do you not remember
seeing him at Fort Niagara?”
“Yes. But he is not the Morris who came to the hospital,” answered
Chalette, who was the prisoner who had escaped with Jean Bevoir, during
the powder-house excitement.
“No, this is a cousin—the brother to that little Nell Morris.”
“Ah, I see. Is he alone? If he is, we have made a fine haul,” was
Chalette’s comment.
“He is the only person I saw,” said the third Frenchman, a hunter named
Gasse. “I will look again. You watch this fellow.”
“To be sure we shall watch him,” cried Jean Bevoir, and at the point of
the pistol he disarmed Henry and made him stand up in a corner, facing
the wall. The young soldier wanted to fight for his liberty, but saw it
was useless, for Chalette also kept his pistol ready for use.
It was not long before Gasse returned, saying that nobody else was
anywhere around. Then Henry’s hands were bound behind him and he was
tied fast to a bench, which was stood up on end for that purpose.
“Now, my fine fellow, you vill tell me how it ees zat you came here,”
began Jean Bevoir.
“I rode part of the distance and walked the rest,” answered Henry, as
lightly as he could. He felt it would do him no good to “show the white
feather.”
“Where did you come from, tell me zat and tell ze truf.”
“I came from Quebec, if you want to know so bad.”
“Ha, Quebec! You march all ze way from Fort Niagara to Quebec?”
“No, I came part of the way by boat.”
“’Tis mooch ze same. Vat ees it zat you do here?”
“That is my own affair.”
“You play ze spy on ze French, not so?”
“No, I am not a spy.”
“But ze English air not here—za know enough to stay near to Quebec.”
“If you must know, I am trying to get home,” answered Henry.
“Geet home? You leaf ze army?”
“Yes.”
“For vat?”
“I have my reasons.”
“You geet afraid of ze French bullets, hey?”
“Perhaps.”
“Maybe you haf deserted ze army?” burst out Jean Bevoir, and gave the
young soldier a shrewd look from his wicked eyes.
“If I have it is none of your affair, Jean Bevoir. Now let me ask a few
questions. How did you get here? Did General Johnson let you go?”
“Yees,” answered Bevoir, without hesitation. “He examine me an’ say I am
free.”
The falsehood was told so readily that Henry was staggered by it.
“General Johnson made a mistake to let you free!” he cried. “If this war
ever comes to an end, you shall suffer for what you have done.”
“Ha, you threaten me, you, von prisonair!” roared the French trader,
shaking his fist in Henry’s face.
“You don’t deserve your freedom, and you know it.”
Bevoir drew a long breath. “Ve vill not talk about zat,” he said. “I
shall tell ze French commander zat you are von spy—an’ Chalette an’
Gasse shall tell ze same. You vill soon learn zat ze French know vat to
do to ze spy, ha! ha!” And he laughed wickedly.
At these words Henry’s heart sank within him. He realized only too well
what Bevoir’s words meant. If taken into the French camp as a spy he
would most likely be shot.
Truly in breaking out of the guard-house in Quebec and coming to this
place he had leaped “out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
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