TAKEN AS A SPY
THE Frenchmen now began an earnest conversation in their native tongue,
and they spoke so rapidly that Henry could understand little of what was
being said. But he knew that they were talking about him, and more than
once he heard his own name and that of Dave, and of his Uncle James
mentioned, and once he heard them mention the trading-post on the
Kinotah.
“Jean Bevoir is going to square accounts if he possibly can,” thought
the young captive dismally. “He is going to make me suffer for all his
troubles. How General Johnson could let such a rascal go is more than I
can understand.”
At length the Frenchmen turned to prepare themselves something to eat,
and one went out to care for the horses, which were stabled in a lean-to
of the farmhouse. Then Henry’s bonds were examined and an additional
strap passed over his lower limbs, after which the bench was let down,
that he might lie at full length.
“Now, if you can sleep, you sleep,” said Bevoir roughly. “But do not try
to get away, or ze bullet from a pistol shall find you verra soon.”
The Frenchmen laid down after this, and once again the farmhouse became
quiet. Henry tried several times to free himself, but found the task
impossible. At last worn out by the struggle, he too, passed into the
land of dreams.
When the captive was released at daybreak he found himself so cramped
that he could scarcely stand. His hands were now untied that he might
eat the little breakfast allotted to him, and were then refastened in
front of him.
Soon after this the farmhouse was left behind, and the whole party
started down the river road single file, Henry taking turns in riding
with each of the others. It was still cold and clear, and traveling was
by no means easy. Yet the horses were of large build and covered many
miles before being halted for midday lunch.
It was nightfall when the camp of a French outpost was discovered,
quarter of a mile back from the St. Lawrence, and close to a settlement
named Girot, since entirely abandoned. Here some fur traders, well known
to Jean Bevoir, had erected something of a fort and stockade, and the
French soldiers had taken possession.
The flare of several camp-fires lit up the outside of the fort, as the
prisoner and his captors rode through the stockade gate. Here were
assembled several companies of foot soldiers, and half a troop of French
cavalry, under the command of Captain Rachepin, a burly fellow, who had
won his position by daring work in the campaigns gone by.
“An English prisoner, eh?” he said, as he gazed at Henry. “That makes
the third this week. Well, the more the merrier.” And without further
ado Henry was thrown into a low, dirty hut, that did duty as a prison.
Two other prisoners were already in the hut, one an English grenadier,
and the other a ranger from New Hampshire. Both were half-starved, and
each had been captured while miles away looking for game for their own
camp larder.
“Hit’s ’ard luck, my boy,” sighed the grenadier gloomily. “Hi didn’t
hexpect nothink like hit when I took the King’s shilling, Hi can tell ye
that.”
“Never seed nothin’ like them pesky garlic-eaters,” said the ranger.
“Neow deown ter our camp we treated the prisoners fair an’ square, but
here—gee shoo! Why, the eatin’ aint fit for hogs, let alone human
critters!”
“Perhaps they haven’t enough for themselves,” answered Henry.
“They ’ave that,” put in the grenadier. “Hi ’ave seen hit with my hown
blessed heyes. But the bloomin’ tykes are selfish. They ’ave flip and
spruce beer galore, but hit is nothink but cold water fer us, with stale
bread an’ salt pork as is worse than stale!” And the grenadier heaved a
long sigh. “Hif ever Hi git ’ome again, strike me dead hif Hi leave a
second time!”
“An’ thet aint the wust on it, not by er jugful,” continued the ranger,
who rejoiced in the name of Pity-All-Sinners Skinner, but was called Pit
for short. “When I got ketched I had a’most seven shillin’s in my
pocket, an’ neow I aint got a smell on’t, flay ’em!”
“I don’t suppose you gave them the money,” remarked Henry.
“Gave it to ’em? Not by er jugful! I’ll see ’em all drawn an’ quartered
fust! They took it—stole it plain and simple. But yeou jest wait! This
here war aint done yet—an’ Pit Skinner aint dead yet nuther!” concluded
the ranger, with a wrathful shake of his head.
For several days nobody came near Henry outside of the guard who brought
in the miserable prison fare, already mentioned by the grenadier and the
New Hampshire ranger. It was certainly food scarcely fit to eat, and it
was a whole day before the young soldier could touch it. But a keen
appetite can overcome many objections, and at last he ate just enough to
satisfy the intense craving of his stomach. Even the drinking water was
poor, and, as Pity-All-Sinners Skinner said, hardly fit for washing.
On the Monday following Henry’s arrival at the post a messenger came in
with some important dispatches. Following this there was a good deal of
bustle and excitement, and soon some guards appeared and told the
prisoners to get ready for a journey.
“Where are we going now?” asked Henry, but the guard addressed either
could not, or would not, answer the question.
Chained together, hand-to-hand, the three were made to march from the
fort. The foot soldiers of the French were already in the ranks and the
prisoners were placed in their midst. Then the little column moved off
by fours, up the St. Lawrence, in the direction of Montreal.
“Something has happened, thet’s certain,” said Skinner. “Looks ter me
like a retreat.”
The march of the soldiers with their prisoners was kept up for three
days, when the outskirts of Montreal were reached. Then came other
dispatches for the commander of the little column, and the prisoners
were sent into the city under a guard of six men, while the main body of
the soldiery moved eastward again.
At the time of which I write, Montreal, now a large and flourishing
city, was but a small town, consisted principally of low one- and
two-storied houses, of logs and stone. There were several stores, or
rather trading shops and some little shipping during the summer time,
along the waterfront. The people, mostly Catholics, were very religious
and had three churches and also a seminary, which, on account of its
towers, could be seen from a great distance.
The defenses of the town were not many and the place had suffered much
from having quartered the army of Montcalm on more than one occasion.
During those times the French soldiers had eaten very nearly all the
food in sight, leaving the town people to famish. Business and trading
were almost at a standstill, and at times even money could not procure
the necessities of life.
On entering Montreal Henry saw but little of the place, for he was
hurried without ceremony to a stone building which the French had turned
into an army prison. In this building were huddled over a score of
prisoners of all descriptions—a motley, half-dressed and half-starved
crowd, some grenadiers, some rangers, and some civilians. Everybody in
the crowd was out of humor, and groans and curses were frequent. But the
prisoners did not dare to talk too loudly, for if they did, a guard
would appear and threaten them with solitary confinement in a stone cell
under one of the churches.
“What an awful place to stay in,” was Henry’s mental comment. He found
himself pushed hither and thither, while the stench of the prison made
him literally sick. “This is Jean Bevoir’s work. He will make me suffer
as much as he possibly can.”
After a good deal of pushing and shoving, Henry found himself in
something of an alcove, and here dropped on the bench which was built
around two sides of the room. Beside him sat an old soldier, who was
suffering from a heavy cold, and who coughed continually.
“It is not fit for a dog here,” said the old soldier. “I have been here
two weeks, and I know. They mean to kill us all off.”
“Two weeks—in this hole!” cried Henry.
“Yes, and that is nothing. Some of the poor fellows have been here three
months.”
“I couldn’t stand it—I’d—I’d die for the want of fresh air.”
“And that is what they want you to do. When you die they won’t have to
feed you any more.” The cough of the old soldier grew steadily worse,
and, although, at the last moment a surgeon came and gave him a little
medicine, he died eight days later, and was carried away for burial in a
trench outside of the town.
Henry had been separated from Pity-All-Sinners Skinner and from the
English grenadier, and so knew absolutely nobody in the prison. More
than this, no one seemed to care for him, and, if the truth must be
told, he likewise cared for nobody. Everybody felt miserable and it was
in very truth a struggle to keep body and soul together and to keep from
catching some fatal disease.
The young soldier was in the prison over a month before Jean Bevoir came
to see him. The French trader could only speak to him through the rudely
slatted door and in the presence of the other captives.
“I trust zat you like ze surroundings,” said Bevoir, with a sickly grin.
“It ees just suited to you, hey?”
“You’re a miserable scoundrel, Bevoir!” burst out Henry. “What have you
told the commander about me?”
“I haf tole him zat you are a spy an’ a verra deep one, too! Some day,
ven he has ze time, he vill bring you up before ze military court.”
“And then?” questioned the young soldier.
Jean Bevoir shrugged his lean shoulders.
“Zen you can die ze death of ze spy, and it ees vat you an’ all your
familee deserve. Ees not zat von pleasant thought, hey?”
And with a sinister leer the French trader moved away from the slatted
door and left the prison as rapidly as he had entered it.
As for poor Henry, his feelings can be better imagined than described.
Walking to a corner of the cell he threw himself down on the bench,
almost overcome. The last door of hope seemed to be shut against him.
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