DARK DAYS
THE days to follow the tattle just described were gloomy enough, both
for Dave and for the little army now assembled at Quebec.
All told, General Murray had lost, in killed, wounded and missing, about
a thousand men, or one-third of his force, while the loss to the enemy
was estimated at about the same. In addition, the English had lost some
cannon and also some of their ammunition and muskets. When the army got
back to Quebec it was thoroughly exhausted, and the men were hardly fit
for work of any kind. Confusion reined supreme, and had Murray permitted
it, there would have been a panic and perhaps the place would have been
abandoned.
“The jig is up,” said more than one soldier. “We must surrender, or else
the French will either bombard us or starve us out.”
But General Murray was not so easily daunted, and soon brought a
semblance of order out of apparent chaos. The wounded were cared for,
and those able to work were immediately set to the task of fortifying
Quebec from every available point. Bags were filled with sand and placed
at the gates, and the cannon were planted so as to command every
approach. Even the convalescent in the hospital had to do their share by
making wadding for the cannon. Soldiers who would not obey orders were
promptly disciplined, and one man who was caught plundering a house was
promptly hanged as a thief.
This public execution brought to Dave’s mind the fate that hung over
Henry. Would his cousin come back, and, if so, what would General Murray
do to him? This thought made Dave shiver.
“He is certainly very stern,” thought the young soldier. “And unless
Henry can clear himself it will surely go hard with him. But perhaps
Henry is dead!” And he shook his head sorrowfully.
Dave had gone with Barringford to the general hospital and seen to it
that the old frontiersman had every attention. At first he was afraid
Barringford was going to die in a few days, but now the surgeon in
attendance held out a faint hope of his recovery.
“But he was hard hit,” said the surgeon. “An inch nearer, and the bullet
would have passed through his brain.”
For days Barringford lay unconscious, knowing nobody and breathing
heavily. During that time Dave came to see him as often as permitted,
and had his own wounds dressed. The young soldier had lost the end of
his little finger, but he counted this as nothing in comparison with his
other troubles. “I’d rather lose the hand than see Sam go,” was what he
told himself.
General Lévis lost no time in strengthening his position around Quebec.
Extra cannon were sent for, and the French commander waited anxiously
for some news of a French warship which was expected.
“If he gets the help of a fleet we are doomed,” said more than one
English officer, and a watch was set, to announce the coming of any sail
up the St. Lawrence. At the same time, the cannon planted on the walls
of Quebec did all they possibly could to make Lévis keep his distance,
and prevent him from throwing up the intrenchments he so much desired.
“A ship is in sight!” was the cry that was raised in the city on the
ninth day of May. “A ship! A ship!”
“What is she?” was the question asked.
This could not, as yet, be answered, and General Murray lost no time in
making his way to where a good look could be had of the lower St.
Lawrence. Sure enough, there was a large ship, but without a flag.
“Hoist the colors at Cape Diamond!” ordered the English commander, and
the flag was raised without delay. In the meantime the warship came
closer and could be seen to be crowded with men. Would she prove to be a
friend or an enemy?
Slowly the flag mounted to the masthead, and unfurled to the breeze. It
was the red cross of St. George.
“’Tis our own ship! Quebec is saved! Huzza! huzza!” was the cry, and
almost immediately the soldiers went wild with joy, some dancing on the
ramparts of the city, in full view of the much-chagrined French, who had
hoped the vessel would prove to be one of their own.
Soon the ship, the _Lowestoffe_, was firing a royal salute, to which the
city batteries replied with vigor, the gunners making the river and
rocky cliffs echo and re-echo with their glad tidings. In the city the
grenadiers marched, sang, and drank toasts, and the gloom of the days
gone by was dispelled as if by magic.
The ship that had come in brought news of an English fleet which was
expected to reach Quebec in a few days. In desperation Lévis began an
immediate attack on the city, but with poor success. Then he assembled
his own ships of war, but six in number, and waited bravely for the
coming of the English vessels.
It was the middle of May when the English fleet sailed up the river. The
battle on the water was of short duration, although the French sailors
fought desperately against overwhelming odds. Seeing they could not win,
one vessel threw her guns overboard and sailed away and the others ran
into the mud flats, where their crews set fire to them, and escaped by
wading and in small boats.
“The day is ours; Lévis cannot stand this defeat on the water,” said
General Murray, and he was right. The loss of the warships carried
consternation into the camp of the French, and that very night they
began to retreat, the English sending shot and shell after them to
hasten their departure. In their hurry they left many cannon, muskets,
and army stores behind them.
“That was a victory worth the winning,” said Dave, as he marched out,
several days later, to help bring in some of the abandoned army stores.
“A few more like that and I reckon the French will leave Quebec alone.”
“Well, we aint got so all-fired much to crow about,” answered one of the
rangers who was working near. “Things looked mighty black all around
afore them ships hove in sight.”
“What do you suppose the French commander will do next?” asked Dave, for
he knew that the ranger, although not a well-spoken man, was a clever
fellow.
“I don’t see how he kin do anything but fall back on Montreal,” answered
the ranger. “We’ll blockade the St. Lawrence on him, an’ sooner or later
the army at Oswego will be a-comin’ this way, and the army from Crown
Point, an’ he’ll have to look out for himself right sharp.”
A few days after this talk Dave called again upon Barringford. He found
the old frontiersman conscious, but somewhat out of his head, the effect
of the bullet wound. Barringford did not know him at first.
“Seems to me I know ye,” he said slowly. “But it’s beyond me—a long way
off. Air ye Henry, or Dave, or thet Jameson boy?”
“I’m Dave, Sam. Don’t you know me?”
“Dave, eh?” The sufferer took the hand held out to him. “All right,
Dave, ef it’s you. But why did ye shoot me in the head? I thought better
o’ you than thet, yes, I did!”
“I didn’t shoot you, Sam; it was a Frenchman did that, and I laid the
Frenchman low for it.”
“Did ye? Queer, I should think you shot me.” Barringford tried to
collect his thoughts, but failed. “Mighty bad place this,” he went on.
“Folks shoving me all day an’ all night, an’ tryin’ to drive wooden pins
into my head.” And then he sank back and dozed off.
“Will he remain this way?” asked Dave of the surgeon, his heart fairly
aching for his old friend.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. “Let us hope not, my lad.”
“But they do sometimes, is that what you mean?” questioned the young
soldier quickly.
“I am sorry to say that is true. You see, the bullet grazed the brain.
If he recovers it will be very slowly.”
“Can I do anything for him?”
“No, we are doing all that can be done.”
“This is not a very nice place.”
“As soon as the weather moderates we will transfer him to a hospital on
the Island of Orleans. There the accommodations will be much improved,
and I will see to it personally that he has every attention.”
“If you will do that, sir, I shall be very thankful. He is one of my
best and closest friends. I do not want to leave him unless I am certain
he is in the best of hands.”
“Leave him? Do you mean you are going away?”
“I belong to the army at Fort Oswego, and my furlough is running out, so
I must get back, if I possibly can,” answered Dave.
What he said was true. He had already remained at Quebec longer than
intended. The very next day found him going back to Fort Oswego, in
company with eight rangers and an English officer. The officer belonged
to General Amherst’s staff, and from him Dave learned, later on, that
Amherst himself was going to take charge of the expedition to move
against Lévis at Montreal, by way of Lake Ontario and the rapids of the
upper St. Lawrence.
The particulars of the trip back to Fort Oswego need not be given here,
for nothing out of the ordinary occurred during the journey, which,
because of one delay and another, lasted over two weeks. While still
eight miles from the fort the little expedition was joined by forty
Indians who were, much to Dave’s astonishment, under the leadership of
White Buffalo.
“Why, White Buffalo, I thought your braves had deserted you!” cried the
young soldier, after the first greeting was over.
“The old braves of my tribe have come back to their reason,” answered
the Indian chief with a smiling face. “They have learned that the French
are their enemies, and gave their word only to break it. Henceforth they
will fight under White Buffalo and Sir William Johnson to the end.”
“That is certainly good news,” said Dave. “I suppose you are going to
rejoin Sir William at Fort Oswego.”
“Yes, and we bring with us an old Indian who knows the swift waters of
the St. Lawrence, if the great Sir William sees best to move upon the
enemy by that course.”
“Most likely he will move down the St. Lawrence, White Buffalo. But I
have heard the rapids are very swift, and more than one man has lost his
life trying to shoot them.”
The want of news about Henry and the sad tidings concerning Barringford
hurt White Buffalo greatly, and he did not hesitate to show his
feelings.
“’Tis a black cloud hanging over us,” he said. “May the Great Spirit
roll it away, bringing Henry back to us unharmed, and lifting the Demon
Spirit from Barringford’s mind.”
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