THERE are many deserted log huts along the St. Lawrence. Colonel Arnold
has taken up his quarters in one of these. It is eight o’clock of the
morning following the talk with young Aaron when the sentinel at the
door reports that a priest is asking admission.
“What have I to do with priests!” demands Colonel Arnold. “However,
bring him in! He must give good reasons for disturbing me, or his black
coat will do him little good.”
The priest is clothed from head to heel in the black frock of his order.
The frock is caught in about the waist with a heavy cord. Down the front
depend a crucifix and beads. The frock is thickly lined with fur; the
peaked hood, also fur-lined, is drawn forward over the priest’s face. In
figure he is short and slight. As he peers out from his hood at Colonel
Arnold, his black eyes give that commander a start of uncertainty.
“I suppose you speak no French?” says the priest.
His accent is wretched. Colonel Arnold might be justified in retorting
that his visitor speaks no English. He restricts himself, however, to an
admission that, as the priest surmises, he has no French, and follows it
with a bluff demand that the latter make plain his errand.
“Why, sir,” returns the priest, glancing about as though in quest of
some one, “I expected to find Captain Burr here. He tells me you wish to
send a message to Montreal.”
Colonel Arnold is alert in a moment; his manner undergoes a change from
harsh to suave.
“Ah!” he cries amiably; “you are the man.” Then, to the sentinel at the
door: “Send word, sir, to Captain Burr, and ask him to come at once to
my quarters.”
While waiting the coming of young Aaron, Colonel Arnold enters into
conversation with his clerkly visitor. The priest explains that he hates
the English, as do all Canadians of French stock. He is only too willing
to do Colonel Arnold any service that shall tell against them. Also, he
adds, in response to a query, that he can make his way to Montreal in
ten days.
“There are farmer and fisher people all along the St. Lawrence,” says
he. “They are French, and good sons of mother church. I am sure they
will give me food and shelter.”
The sentinel comes lumbering in, and reports that young Aaron is not to
be found.
“That is sheer nonsense, sir!” fumes Colonel Arnold. “Why should he not
be found? He is somewhere about camp. Fetch him instantly!”
When the sentinel again departs, the priest frees his face of the
obscuring hood.
“Your sentinel is right,” he says. “Captain Burr is not at his
quarters.”
Colonel Arnold stares in amazement; the priest is none other than our
“gentleman volunteer.” Perceiving Colonel Arnold gazing in curious
wonder at his clerkly frock, young Aaron explains.
“I got it five days back, at that monastery we passed. You recall how I
dined there with the Brothers. I thought then that just such a peaceful
coat as this might find a use.”
“Marvelous!” exclaims Colonel Arnold. “And you speak French, too?”
“French and Latin. I have, you see, the verbal as well as outward
furnishings of a priest of these parts.”
“And you think you can reach Montgomery? I have to warn you, sir, that
the work will be extremely delicate and the danger great.”
“I shall be equal to the work. As for the peril, if I feared it I should
not be here.”
It is arranged; and young Aaron explains that he is prepared, indeed,
prefers, to start at once. Moreover, he counsels secrecy.
“You have an Indian guide or two, about you,” says he, “whom I do not
trust. If my errand were known, one of them might cut me off and sell my
scalp to the English.”
When Colonel Arnold is left alone, he gives himself up to a
consideration of the chances of his message going safely to Montreal. He
sits long, with puckered lips and brooding eye.
“In any event,” he murmurs, “I cannot fail to be the better off. If he
reach Montgomery, that is what I want. On the other hand, should he fall
a prey to the English I shall think it a settlement of what debts I owe
him. Yes; the latter event would mean three hundred pounds to me. Either
way I am rid of one whose cool superiorities begin to smart. Himself a
gentleman, he seems never to forget that I am an apothecary.”
Young Aaron is twenty miles nearer Montreal when the early winter sun
goes down. For ten days he plods onward, now and again lying by to avoid
a roving party of English. As he foretold, every cabin is open to the
“young priest.” He but explains that he has cause to fear the redcoats,
and with that those French Canadians, whom he meets with, keep nightly
watch, while couching him warmest and softest, and feeding him on the
best. At last he reaches General Montgomery, and tells of Colonel Arnold
below Quebec.
General Montgomery, a giant in stature, has none of that sluggishness
so common with folk of size. In twenty-four hours after receiving young
Aaron’s word, he is off to make a junction with Colonel Arnold. He takes
with him three hundred followers, all that may be spared from Montreal,
and asks young Aaron to serve on his personal staff.
[Illustration: 0067]
They find Colonel Arnold, with his five hundred and fifty, camped under
the very heights of Quebec. The garrison, while quite as strong as is
his force, have not once molested him. They leave his undoing to the
cold and snow, and that starvation which is making gaunt the faces and
shortening the belts of his men.
General Montgomery upon his arrival takes command. Colonel Arnold,
while foreseeing this--since even his vanity does not conceive of a
war condition so upside down that a colonel gives orders to a
general--cannot avoid a fit of the sulks. He is the more inclined to be
moody, because the coming of the big Irishman has visibly brightened his
people, who for months have been scowls and clouds to him. Now the face
of affairs is changed; the mutinous ones have nothing save cheers for
the big general whenever he appears.
General Montgomery calls a conference, and Colonel Arnold comes with all
his officers. At the request of young Aaron, the big general retains
him by his side. This does not please the ex-apothecary, it hurts his
self-love that the “gentleman volunteer” is so obviously pleased to be
free of his company. At the conference, General Montgomery advises all
to hold themselves in readiness for an assault upon the English walls.
“I cannot tell the night,” he observes; “I only say that we shall
attack during the first snowstorm that occurs. It may come in an hour,
wherefore be ready!”
The storm which is to mask the movements of General Montgomery does not
keep folk waiting. There soon falls a midnight which is nothing save
a blinding whirling sheet of snow. Thereupon the word goes through the
camp.
The assault is to be made in two columns, General Montgomery leading
one, Colonel Arnold the other. Young Aaron will be by the elbow of the
big Irishman. By way of aiding, a feigned attack is ordered for a far
corner of the English works.
As the soldiers fall into their ranks, the storm fairly swallows them
up. It would seem as though none might live in such a tempest--white,
ferociously cold, Arctic in its fury! It is desperate weather! the
more desperate when faced by ones whose courage has been diminished
by privation. But the strong heart of General Montgomery listens to no
doubts. He will lead out his eight hundred and fifty against an equal
force that have been sleeping warm and eating full, while his own were
freezing and starving. Also, those warm, full-fed ones are behind stone
walls, which the lean, frozen ones must scale and capture.
“I shall give you ten minutes’ start,” observes General Montgomery to
Colonel Arnold. “You have farther to go than we to gain your position. I
shall wait ten minutes; then I shall press forward.”
Colonel Arnold moves off with his column through the driving storm. When
those ten minutes of grace have elapsed, General Montgomery gives his
men the word to advance.
They urge their difficult way up a ravine, snow belt-deep. There is an
outer work of blockhouse sort at the head of the defile. It is of solid
mason work, two stories, crenelled above for muskets, pierced below for
two twelve-pounders. This must be reduced before the main assault can
begin.
As General Montgomery, with young Aaron on the right, the column in
broken disorder at his heels, nears the blockhouse, a dog, more wakeful
than the English, is heard to bark. That bark turns out the redcoat
garrison as though a trumpet called.
“Forward!” cries General Montgomery.
The men respond; they rush bravely on. The blockhouse, dully looming
through the storm, is no more than forty yards away.
Suddenly a red tongue of flame licks out into the snow swirl, to be
followed by the roar of one of the twelve-pounders. In quick response
comes the roar of its sister gun, while, from the loopholes above, the
muskets crackle and splutter.
It is blind cannonading; but it does its work as though the best
artillerist is training the guns at brightest noonday. The head of the
assaulting column is met flush in the face with a sleet of grapeshot.
General Montgomery staggers; and then, without a word, falls forward on
his face in the snow. Young Aaron stoops to raise him to his feet. It is
of no avail; the big Irishman is dead.
The bursting roar of the twelve-pounders is heard again. As if to keep
their general company, a dozen more give up their lives.
“Montgomery is slain!”
The word zigzags along the ragged column.
It is a daunting word! The men begin to give way.
Young Aaron rushes into their midst, and seeks to rally them. He might
as well attempt to stay the whirling snow in its dance! The men will
follow none save General Montgomery; and he is dead.
Slowly they fall backward along the ravine up which they climbed. Again
the two twelve-pounders roar, and a raking hail of grape sings through
the shaking ranks. More men are struck down! That backward movement
becomes a rout.
Young Aaron loses the icy self-control which is his distinguishing
trait. He buries the retreating ones beneath an avalanche of curses,
drowns them with a cataract of scorn.
“What!” he cries. “Will you leave your general’s body in their hands?”
He might have spared himself the shouting effort. Already he is alone
with the dead.
“It is better company than that of cowards!” is his bitter cry, as he
bends above the stark form of his chief.
The English are pouring from the blockhouse. Still young Aaron will not
leave the dead Montgomery behind. Now are the steel-like powers of his
slight frame manifest. With one effort, he swings the giant body to
his shoulder, and plunges off down the defile, the eager blood-hungry
redcoats not a dozen rods behind.