THE EVE OF BATTLE.
The next scene of our story opens on the eve of an eventful day in
the annals of Canada. About sunset in an October afternoon,
Neville Trueman reached The Holms, after a long and weary ride
from the western end of his circuit, which reached nearly to the
head of Lake Ontario. The forest was gorgeous in its autumnal
foliage, like Joseph in his coat of many colours. The corn still
stood thick, in serried ranks, in the fields, no longer plumed and
tasseled like an Indian chief, but rustling, weird-like, as an
army of spectres in the gathering gloom. The great yellow pumpkins
gleamed like huge nuggets of gold in some forest Eldorado. The
crimson patches of ripened buckwheat looked like a blood-stained
field of battle: alas! too true an image of the deeper stains
which were soon to dye the greensward of the neighbouring height.
The change from the bleak moor, over which swept the chill north
wind from the lonely lake, to the genial warmth of Squire
Drayton's hospitable kitchen was most agreeable. A merry fire of
hickory wood on the ample hearth--it was long before the time of
your close, black, surly-looking kitchen stoves--snapped and
sparkled its hearty welcome to the travel-worn guest. It was a
rich Rembrant-like picture that greeted Neville as he entered the
room. The whole apartment was flooded with light from the leaping
flames which was flashed back from the brightly-scoured milk-pans
and brass kettles on the dresser--not unlike, thought he, to the
burnished shields and casques of the men-at-arms in an old feudal
hall.
The fair young mistress, clad in a warm stuff gown, with a snowy
collar and a crimson necktie, moved gracefully through the room,
preparing the evening meal. Savoury odours proceeded from a pan
upon the coals, in which were frying tender cutlets of venison--
now a luxury, then, in the season, an almost daily meal.
The burly squire basked in the genial blaze, seated in a rude
home-made armchair, the rather uncomfortable-looking back and arms
of which were made of cedar roots, with the bark removed, like our
garden rustic seats. Such a chair has Cowper in his "Task"
described,--
"Three legs upholding firm
A messy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms:
And such in ancient halls may still be found."
At his feet crouched Lion, the huge staghound, at times half
growling in his sleep, as if in dreams he chased the deer, and
then, starting up, he licked his master's hand and went to sleep
again.
On the opposite side of the hearth, Zenas was crouched upon the
floor, laboriously shaping an ox-yoke with a spoke-shave. For in
those days Canadian farmers were obliged to make or mend almost
everything they used upon the farms.
Necessity, which is the mother of invention, made them deft and
handy with axe and adze, bradawl and waxed end, anvil and forge.
The squire himself was no mean blacksmith, and could shoe a horse,
or forge a plough coulter, or set a tire as well as the village
Vulcan at Niagara.
"Right welcome," said the squire, as he made room for Neville near
the fireplace, while Katherine gave him a quieter greeting and
politely relieved him of his wrappings. "Well, what's the news
outside?" he continued, we must explain that as Niagara, next to
York and Kingston, was the largest settlement in the province, it
rather looked down upon the population away from "the front," as
it was called, as outsiders almost beyond the pale of
civilization.
"No news at all," replied Neville, "but a great anxiety to hear
some. When I return from the front, they almost devour me with
questions."
The early Methodist preachers, in the days when newspapers or
books were few and scarce, and travel almost unknown, were in one
respect not unlike the wandering minstrels or trouveres, not to
say the Homeric singers of an earlier day. Their stock of news,
their wider experience, their intelligent conversation, and their
sacred minstrelsy procured them often a warm welcome and a night's
lodging outside of Methodist circles. They diffused much useful
information, and their visits dispelled the mental stagnation
which is almost sure to settle upon an isolated community. The
whole household gathering around the evening fire, hung with eager
attention upon their lips as, from their well-stored minds, they
brought forth things new and old. Many an inquisitive boy or girl
experienced a mental awakening or quickening by contact with their
superior intelligence; and many a toil-worn man and woman renewed
the brighter memories of earlier years as the preacher brought
them glimpses of the outer world, or read from some well-worn
volume carried in his saddle-bags pages of some much-prized
English classic.
"Well, there has been news in plenty along the line here," said
the squire, "and likely soon to be more. The Americans have been
massing their forces at Forts Porter, Schlosser, and Niagara, and
we expect will be attempting a crossing somewhere along the river
soon."
"They'll go back quicker than they came, I guess, as they did at
Sandwich," said Zenas, who took an enthusiastically patriotic view
of the prowess of his countrymen.
"I reckon the 'Mericans feel purty sore over that business," said
Tom Loker, who, with Sandy McKay, had come in, and, in the
unconventional style of the period, had drawn up their seats to
the fire. "They calkilated they'd gobble up the hull of Canada;
but 'stead of that, they lost the hull State of Michigan an' their
great General Hull into the bargain," and he chuckled over his
play upon words, after the manner of a man who has uttered a
successful pun.
"You must tell us all about it," said Neville: "I have not heard
the particulars yet."
"After supper," said the squire. "We'll discuss the venison first
and the war afterwards," and there was a general move to the
table.
When ample justice had been done to the savoury repast, Miss
Katherine intimated that a good fire had been kindled in the
Franklin stove in the parlour, and, in honour of the guest,
proposed an adjournment thither.
The squire, however, looked at the leaping flames of the kitchen
fire as if reluctant to leave it, and Neville asked as a favour to
be allowed to bask, "like a cat in the sun," he said, before it.
"I'm glad you like the old-fashioned fires," said the farmer.
"They're a-most like the camp-fire beside which we used to bivouac
when I went a-sogering. I can't get the hang o' those new-fangled
Yankee notions," he continued, referring to the parlour stove,
named after the great philosopher whose name it bore.
A large semicircle of seats was drawn up around the hearth. The
squire took down from the mantel his long-stemmed "churchwarden"
pipe.
"I learned to smoke in Old Virginny," he said apologetically. "Had
the real virgin leaf. It had often to be both meat and drink when
I was campaigning there. I wish I could quit it; but, young man,"
addressing himself to Neville, "I'd advise you never to learn.
It's bad enough for an old sojer like me; but a smoking preacher I
don't admire."
Zenas, crouched by the chimney-jamb, roasting chestnuts and
"popping" corn; Sandy, with the characteristic thrift of his
countrymen, set about repairing a broken whip-stock and fitting it
with a new lash; Tom Loker idly whittled a stick, and Miss
Katharine drew up her low rocking-chair beside her father, and
proceeded to nimbly knit a stout-ribbed stocking, intended for his
comfort--for girls in those days knew how to knit, ay, and card
the wool and spin the yarn too.
"Now, Tom, tell us all about Hull's surrender," said Zenas, to
whom the stirring story was already an oft-told tale.
"Wall, after I seed you, three months agone," said Tom, nodding to
Neville, and taking a fresh stick to whittle, "we trudged on all
that day and the next to Long P'int, an' a mighty long p'int it
wuz to reach, too. Never wuz so tired in my life. Follering the
plough all day wuz nothing to it. But when we got to the P'int, we
found the Gineral there. An' he made us a rousin' speech that put
new life into every man of us, an' we felt that we could foller
him anywheres. As ther wuz no roads to speak of, and the Gineral
had considerable stores, he seized all the boats he could find."
"Requiseetioned, they ca' it," interjected Sandy.
"Wall, it's purty much the same, I reckon," continued Tom, "an' a
queer lot o' boats they wuz--fishin' boats, Durham boats, scows
[Footnote: In the absence of roads, boats were much used for
carrying corn and flour to and from the mills, and for the
conveyance of farm produce.]--a'most anythin' that 'ud float.
Ther' wuz three hundred of us at the start, an' we picked up more
on the way. Wall, we sailed an' paddled a matter o' two hundred
miles to Fort Malden, an' awful cramped it wuz, crouchin' all day
in them scows; an' every night we camped on shore, but sometimes
the bank wuz so steep an' the waves so high we had to sail on for
miles to find a creek we could run into, an' once we rowed all
night. As we weathered P'int Pelee, the surf nearly swamped us."
"What a gran' feed we got frae thae gallant Colonel Talbot!"
interjected Sandy McKay. "D'ye mind his bit log bothie perched
like a craw's nest atop o' yon cliff. The 'Castle o' Malahide,' he
ca'd it, no less. How he speered gin there were ony men frae
Malahide in the auld kintry wi' us! An' a prood man he was o' his
ancestry sax hunnerd years lang syne. Methinks he's the gran'est
o' the name himsel'--the laird o' a score o' toonships a' settled
by himsel'. Better yon than like the gran' Duke o' Sutherland
drivin' thae puir bodies frae hoose an' hame. Lang suld Canada
mind the gran' Colonel Talbot [Footnote: Posterity has not been
ungrateful to the gallant colonel. In the towns of St. Thomas and
Talbotville, his name is commemorated, and it is fondly cherished
in the grateful traditions of many an early settler's family. He
died at London, at the age of eighty, in 1853.] But was na it fey
that him as might hae the pick an' choice o' thae braw dames o'
Ireland suld live his lane, wi' out a woman's han' to cook his
kail or recht up his den, as he ca'd it."
"I've been at his castle," said Neville, "and very comfortable it
is: He lives like a feudal lord,--allots land, dispenses justice,
marries the settlers, reads prayers on Sunday, and rules the
settlement like a forest patriarch." "Tell about Tecumseh," said
Zenas, in whose eyes that distinguished chief divided the honours
with General Brock.
"Wall," continued Loker, "at Malden there wuz a grand pow-wow, an'
the Indians wore their war-paint and their medals, and Tecumseh
made a great harangue. He was glad, he said, their great father
across the sea had woke up from his long sleep an' sent his
warriors to help his red children, who would shed the last drop of
their blood in fighting against the 'Merican long knives." "And
they'll do it, too," chimed in Zenas, in unconscious prophecy of
the near approaching death of that brave chief and many of his
warriors.
"An' Tecumseh," continued the narrator, "drawed a map of Detroit
an' the 'Merican fort on a piece o' birch bark, as clever, I
heered the Gineral say, as an officer of engineers."
"But was na yon a gran' speech thae General made us when we were
tauld tae attack thae fort?" exclaimed Sandy with martial
enthusiasm. "Mon, it made me mind o' Wallace an' his 'Scots wham
Bruce hae aften led.' I could ha' followed him 'gainst ony odds,
though odds eneuch there were--near twa tae ane, an' thae big guns
an' thae fort tae their back."
"Wasn't I glad to see the white flag come from the fort as we
formed column for assault, instead o' the flash o' the big guns,
showin' their black muzzles there," Loker ingenuously confessed.
"I'm no coward, but it makes a feller feel skeery to see those
ugly-lookin' war dogs splttin' fire at him."
"Hae na I tell't ye," said Sandy, somewhat sardonically, "gin
ye're born tae be hangit, the bullet's no made that'll kill ye."
"Ye're as like to be hanged yerself," said Tom, somewhat
resentfully, giving the proverb a rather literal interpretation.
"Tush, mon, nae offence, its ony an auld Scotch saw, that. But an
angry mon was yon tall Captain Scott [Footnote: Afterwards Major-
General Scott, Commander-in-Chief of the United States army. The
prisoners were sent to Montreal and Quebec. Hull was subsequently
court-marshalled for cowardice and condemned to death, but he was
reprieved on account of Revolutionary service.] at thae surrender.
How he stamped an' raved an' broke his sword."
"I am sure the Gineral was very kind to them. On our march home,
the prisoners shared and fared as well as we did."
"I heard," said Neville, "that Hull was afraid the Indians would
massacre the women and children who had taken refuge in the fort."
"No fear of that," said Loker. "Tecumseh told the Gineral they had
sworn off liquor during the war. It's the fire-water that makes
the Indian a madman, an' the white man, too."
"Well, thank God," said Neville, "it is a great and bloodless
victory. I hope it will bring a speedy peace."
"I am afraid not," said the squire, arousing from his doze in the
"ingle nook." "We had a seven years' struggle of it in the old
war, and I fear that there will have to be some blood-letting
before these bad humours are cufed. But we'll hope for the best.
Come, Katharine, bring us a flagon of your sweet cider."
The sturdy brown flagon was brought, and the gleaming pewter mugs
were filled--it was long before the days of Temperance Societies--
even the preacher thinking it no harm to take his mug of the
sweet, amber-coloured draught.
Neville read from the great family Bible that night the majestic
forty-sixth psalm, so grandly paraphrased in Luther's hymn,
"Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott;"
the favourite battle-hymn, chanting which the Protestant armies
marched to victory on many a hard-fought field--the hymn sung by
the host of Gustavus Adolphus on the eve of the fatal fight of
Lutzen.
As he read the closing verses of the psalm the young preacher's
voice assumed the triumphant tone of assured faith in the glorious
prophecy:
"He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of the earth; He breaketh
the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder; He burneth the chariot in
the fire.
"Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the
heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.
"The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge."
"Amen!" unconsciously but fervently responded the soft low voice
of Katherine Drayton to this prophecy of millennial peace, and
this solemn avowal of present confidence in the Most High.
Alas! before to-morrow's sun should set, her woman's heart should
bleed at the desolations of war brought home to her very
hearthstone.