A STERN NEMESIS--A RAVAGED FRONTIER.
On the evening of that eventful day, again a family gathering took
place at The Holms--for so closely had trial, adventure, and
suffering for a common cause knit together the guests and inmates,
that they seemed like a family group. The sword of the
grandfather, above the mantel, was now crossed by the cavalry
sabre of Zenas, and the old Brown Bess was flanked by the
dragoon's carbine. Good cheer in abundance spread the board, for
the broad acres of the farm and the kindly ministries of nature
had not stinted their yield on account of the red battle-year. But
an air of pensiveness, almost of dejection, broken by sharp
outbursts of indignation marked the social converse. Many
incidents of privation and suffering, in consequence of the
burning of the town, were told. Indeed the resources of the
household had been taxed to the utmost to relieve the pressing
distress, and every room and guest-chamber was filled with
houseless refugees from the inclemency of the weather.
"There will be a grim revenge for this, before long," said Captain
Villiers, who had embraced the earliest opportunity to renew his
homage at a shrine that had almost unconsciously become very dear.
"In which I hope to take part," interjected Zenas, with a fierce
gesture.
"We must carry war into Africa," continued the Captain. "Hitherto,
for the most part, we have acted on the defensive. The time has
come when we must repay invasion by invasion, and outrage by
retaliation." So does the cruel war-spirit grow by that on which
it feeds.
"That 'ere fort with its big guns a-grinnin' an' growlin' like
mastiffs in their kennels, has bullied us long enough," said Tom
Loker, who availed himself of the democratic simplicity of the
times to express his opinion.
"It wadna be sae muckle a job to tak it, I'm thinkin'," said Sandy
McKay, looking up from his musket that he was oiling and cleaning;
"it's no sae strang as it luiks. I ken its rayelins and demilunes
unco weel, bein' sax weeks a prisoner wi'in thae walls. Gin your
ance ower thae brig and inside the outworks it wad be easy eneuch
tae win au' haud the fort."
"That's the rub," said the squire, "to gain a footing and win the
outworks. If they keep a vigilant watch it would be a difficult
task. The only way would be to surprise the garrison. A few stout-
hearted men, well supported, might overpower the guard. That's the
way Ethan Allen took Ticonderoga, in the old war."
"Father," said Zenas, with enthusiasm, "It can be done, and must
be done, and I must help do it. I claim a place in the forlorn
hope. I'd like to be the first man in."
The old man winced a little at the awful contingency of death and
danger for his soldier boy, so close at hand; and Kate gazed at
him, with tears of sympathy filling her eyes and the blood
mantling her cheek.
"As God wills, my son," answered the sire. "I said the time might
come when you should bear the battle's brunt. If your heart calls
you I will not say nay. I gave you to your country, and dare not
hold you back."
"Young maister," said McKay, with Scottish fidelity, "whaur ye
gae, I'll gae. I'm an auld mon, noo, an' how better could I gi' ma
life, gin sae it's written, than for my King? Forbye I ken weel the
place, an' sae God wills, I can guide ye intill it by nicht as weel
as ithers could by day."
"I'm not the man to shirk the call to arms when the bugle sounds,"
remarked Tom Loker, "but I must say I've no stomach for this going
before I'm sent. It's a sheer temptin' o' Providence, seems to
me."
"Hoot, mon," said Sandy, "what is to be, is to be. Gin ye're to
fa', ye'll fa' at the rear o' thae column as sune as at the heid
o' it, an' I'm gey sure the first is the mair honourable place."
"Had I two score gallant fellows like you and Zenas," broke in
Captain Villiers, grasping the hilt of his sword, "with a couple
of companies to support us, I'd guarantee the fort would he taken
before a week. Something more will come of this, I warrant"
Full of this daring scheme, the very next day he proposed to
Colonel Murray the bold plan. That officer sent for McKay,
questioned him thoroughly as to the fort and its defences, and had
him draw a rude plan of its approaches, curtains, and bastions. He
heartily fell in with the idea and made immediate preparation for
its execution.
The night of the eighteenth of December was moonless and dark. A
column of five hundred men of the Forty-First and Hundredth
regiments, a grenadier company of the First Royals, and fifty
militia, filed out of the portals of Fort George, bearing scaling
ladders and other implements of assault, as silent, as ghosts. At
the head marched the forlorn hope of twenty men, among whom were
Captain Villiers, Zenas, and McKay. But each man, though he bore
his life in his hand, walked proudly erect, as if with the
assurance of victory, or of a reward more glorious than even
victory. They marched several miles up the river to a spot where a
crossing could safely be effected without discovery or
interruption.
Now began the stealthy march on the devoted fort. Like an avenging
Nemesis, shod with silence, the column approached the unconscious
garrison. Every order was conveyed in a whisper. No clink of
sabre, nor clatter of muskets was heard. The snow, which had begun
to fall, muffled the tread and deadened each sound. The column
wound on in the hush of midnight over the wintry waste, stealing
like a tiger on its prey. The piquets, lulled into security by the
storm, were avoided by a _detour_. Now amid the blackness of
night, the deeper blackness of the fort loomed up. McKay and Zenas
moved to the front beside Captain Villiers who whispered his
commands. McKay silently led the way to the sally-port. A huge
grenadier grasped the sentry by the throat to prevent his giving
the alarm. The forlorn hope glided through the small opening of
the sally-port, and, well instructed beforehand, rushed to the
main gateway, overpowered the guard, and flung open the huge iron-
studded gates. The British column now poured in, and before drum
had rolled or bugle rung had reached the central quadrangle. The
garrison awoke from slumber only to a futile struggle with an
exasperated foe, and after a short resistance were compelled to
surrender. In this assault the loss of the victors was only six
men--a circumstance almost unparalleled in military annals--that
of the vanquished unhappily was considerably greater.
Three hundred prisoners, three thousand stand of arms, and an
immense quantity of stores were captured--the latter a great boon
to the well-nigh famished people of the devastated town of
Niagara. [Footnote: The writer was intimately acquainted with an
old resident on the Niagara River, who in his youth had been a
prisoner in the American fort, and formed part of the forlorn hope
which aided in its capture. From him many interesting incidents of
the war were learned.]
We would fain here close this record of retaliation. Enough had
been done for British honour and for the punishment of the enemy.
But when dread Bellona cries "Havoc," and slips the leashes of the
hellish dogs of war, the instincts of humanity seem lost, and
baptized men seem in danger of reverting to unredeemed savagery.
Trueman expostulated, and pleaded, and prayed for a mitigation of
the penalty inflicted on the vanquished, but in vain. In ruthless
retaliation for the burning of Niagara, the British ravaged the
American frontier, and gave to the flames the thriving towns of
Lewiston, Manchester, Black Rock, and Buffalo. At the latter
place, an American force, two thousand strong, made a stout
resistance, but was defeated, with the loss of four hundred men,
by the British, with only one-third the number of troops, December
30.
Thus the holy Christmas-tide, God's pledge of peace and good-will
toward men, rose upon a fair and fertile frontier scathed and
blackened by wasting and rapine, and the year went out in "tears
and misery, in hatred and flames and blood."
The marks of recent conflict were everywhere visible, and--saddest
evidence of all--was the multitude of soldiers' graves whose
silent sleepers no morning drum-beat should arouse forever. The
peaceful parish church of Niagara had been turned into a hospital,
where, instead of praise and prayer, were heard the groans of
wounded and dying men. Everything in fact gave indications of
military occupation and the prevalence of the awful reign of war.
Seldom has the frightful destructiveness of war been more
strikingly illustrated. The commerce of the United States was
completely crippled by the blockade of her ports, her revenue
falling from $24,000,000 to $8,000,000. Admiral Cockburn, of the
British Navy, swept the Atlantic coast with his fleet, destroying
arsenals and naval stores wherever his gun-boats could penetrate.
Great Britain also recovered her old prestige in more than one
stubborn sea-fight with a not unworthy foe. On a lovely morning in
June, the United States frigate "Chesapeake," of forty-nine guns,
stood out of Boston harbour amid the holiday cheers of a
sympathizing multitude, to answer the challenge to a naval duel of
H. M. S. "Shannon," of fifty-two guns. They were soon locked
muzzle to muzzle in deadly embrace, belching shot and grape
through each other's sides, while the streaming gore incarnadined
the waves. The British boarders swarmed on the "Chesapeake's"
deck, and soon, with nearly half his crew killed or wounded, she
struck her colours to the red-cross flag. In five days the
shattered and blood-stained vessels crept together into Halifax
harbour, the American captain, the gallant Lawrence, lying in his
cabin cold in death; the British commander, the chivalric Broke,
raving in the delirium of a desperate wound. The slain captain was
borne to his grave amid the highest honours paid to his valour by
a generous foe. Amid the roar of Broadway's living tide, beneath
the shadow of old Trinity Church, a costly monument commemorates
his heroic and untimely death. A few days later, the British brig
"Boxer," of fourteen guns, surrendered to the U. S. brig
"Enterprise," of sixteen guns. In one quiet grave, overlooking
Casco Bay, beside which the writer, one sunny summer day,
meditated on the vanity of earthly strife, their rival captains
lie buried side by side. Some kindly hand had decked their graves
with tiny flags, which in sun and shower had become dimmed and
faded; and planted fair and innocent flowers which breathed their
beauty and fragrance amid the shadows of death. So fade and pass
away the false and transient glory of arms. So bloom and flourish
in immortal beauty the supernal loveliness of virtue and piety.
It is a relief to turn away from these scenes of war and bloodshed
to the record of human affection and heroic self-sacrifice and
devotion.
George Morton, the faithful Canadian patriot, crippled,
impoverished, sick at heart, and despairing of ever claiming Mary
Lawson as his bride, returned after the burning of his native town
to the ashes of his ruined home to begin life over again. A
partial indemnity from the Government enabled him to resume
business on a modest scale, which, by thrift and industry, grew
and increased with the gradual growth of the town. Ensign Roberts
was among the slain at the taking of the Fort, and Mr. Lawson's
property was destroyed by the conflagration that followed. The old
man, broken by his losses and by exposure, gradually sunk, and
died, Mary nursing him devotedly to the last. After years of delay
the love of the no longer youthful pair found its consummation in
a happy marriage, followed by a calmly tranquil wedded life.
"Although this cruel war," whispered George to his bride upon
their wedding-day, "has robbed us of all our own worldly wealth,
has cost you your father, and has left me a cripple for life, yet
it could not take from us the priceless wealth of our affection."
"Nay, dear heart," she replied, "the long trial of our love has
purified it from earthly dross, and proved it the type of love
immortal in the skies."
In after years, to children and to children's children on his
knees, George Horton used often to recount the perils of those
fearful scenes of war and wasting; but no theme was more pleasing
to himself and to his youthful auditory, while the comely matron
in her mature beauty blushed at the praise of her own heroism,
than the episode of the fair Mary Lawson's midnight adventure in
the ice on the Niagara, in the terrible winter of the war.