It was hours before Rolf was sure that he had stopped the pursuit, and
the thing that finally set his mind at rest was the rising wind that
soon was a raging and drifting snow storm. “Oh, blessed storm!” he said
in his heart, as he marked all trail disappear within a few seconds
of its being made. And he thought: “How I cursed the wind that held me
back--really from being made prisoner. How vexed I was at that ducking
in the river, that really saved my despatches from the enemy. How
thankful I am now for the storm that a little while back seemed so
bitterly cruel.”
That forenoon they struck the big bend of the river and now did not
hesitate to use the easy travel on the ice as far as Rensselaer Falls,
where, having got their bearings from a settler, they struck across the
country through the storm, and at night were encamped some forty miles
from Ogdensburg.
Marvellously few signs of game had they seen in this hard trip;
everything that could hide away was avoiding the weather. But in a cedar
bottom land near Cranberry Lake they found a “yard” that seemed to be
the winter home of hundreds of deer. It extended two or three miles one
way a half a mile the other; in spite of the deep snow this was nearly
all in beaten paths. The scouts saw at least fifty deer in going
through, so, of course, had no difficulty in selecting a young buck for
table use.
The going from there on was of little interest. It was the same old
daily battle with the frost, but less rigorous than before, for now the
cold winds were behind, and on the 27th of February, nine days after
leaving, they trotted into Ticonderoga and reported at the commandant's
headquarters.
The general was still digging entrenchments and threatening to
annihilate all Canada. But the contents of the despatches gave him new
topics for thought and speech. The part he must play in the proposed
descent on Montreal was flattering, but it made the Ticonderoga
entrenchments ridiculous.
For three days Rolf was kept cutting wood, then he went with despatches
to Albany.
Many minor labours, from hog-killing to stable-cleaning and trenching,
varied the month of March. Then came the uncertain time of April when
it was neither canoeing nor snow-shoeing and all communication from the
north was cut off.
But May, great, glorious May came on, with its inspiring airs and
livening influence. Canoes were afloat, the woods were brown beneath and
gold above.
Rolf felt like a young stag in his strength. He was spoiling for a run
and volunteered eagerly to carry despatches to Sackett's Harbour. He
would go alone, for now one blanket was sufficient bed, and a couple of
pounds of dry meat was enough food for each day. A small hatchet would
be useful, but his rifle seemed too heavy to carry; as he halted in
doubt, a junior officer offered him a pistol instead, and he gladly
stuck it in his belt.
Taller than ever, considerably over six feet now, somewhat lanky, but
supple of joint and square of shoulder, he strode with the easy stride
of a strong traveller. His colour was up, his blue-gray eyes ablaze
as he took the long trail in a crow line across country for Sackett's
Harbour. The sentry saluted, and the officer of the day, struck by his
figure and his glowing face as much as by the nature of his errand,
stopped to shake hands and say, “Well, good luck, Kittering, and may you
bring us better news than the last two times.”
Rolf knew how to travel now; he began softly. At a long, easy stride he
went for half an hour, then at a swinging trot for a mile or two. Five
miles an hour he could make, but there was one great obstacle to speed
at this season--every stream was at flood, all were difficult to cross.
The brooks he could wade or sometimes could fell a tree across them, but
the rivers were too wide to bridge, too cold and dangerous to swim. In
nearly every case he had to make a raft. A good scout takes no chances.
A slight raft means a risky passage; a good one, a safe crossing but
loss of time in preparations. Fifteen good rafts did Rolf make in that
cross-country journey of three days: dry spruce logs he found each time
and bound them together with leather-wood and withes of willow. It meant
a delay of at least an hour each time; that is five hours each day. But
the time was wisely spent. The days were lengthening; he could travel
much at dusk. Soon he was among settlements. Rumours he got at a
settler's cabin of Sir George Prevost's attack on Sackett's Harbour and
the gallant repulse and at morning of the fourth day he came on the hill
above Sackett's Harbour--the same hill where he had stood three months
before. It was with something like a clutching of his breath that he
gazed; his past experiences suggested dreadful thoughts but no--thank
God, “Old Glory” floated from the pole. He identified himself to the
sentinels and the guard, entered the fort at a trot, and reported at
headquarters.
There was joy on every side. At last the tide had turned. Commodore
Chauncey, after sweeping Lake Ontario, had made a sudden descent on York
(Toronto now) the capital of Upper Canada, had seized and destroyed
it. Sir George Prevost, taking advantage of Chauncey's being away, had
attacked Sackett's Harbour, but, in spite of the absence of the fleet,
the resistance had been so vigorous that in a few days the siege was
abandoned.
There were shot holes in walls and roofs, there were a few wounded
in the hospital, the green embankments were torn, and the flag-pole
splintered; but the enemy was gone, the starry flag was floating on the
wind, and the sturdy little garrison filled with a spirit that grows
only in heroes fighting for their homes.
How joyfully different from Ogdensburg.