General Macomb knew that Sir George Prevost was a cautious and
experienced commander. The loss of his fleet would certainly make a
radical change in his plans, but what change? Would he make a flank
move and dash on to Albany, or retreat to Canada, or entrench himself to
await reinforcements at Plattsburg, or try to retrieve his laurels by an
overwhelming assault on the town?
Whatever his plan, he would set about it quickly, and Macomb studied
the enemy's camp with a keen, discerning eye, but nothing suggesting a
change was visible when the sun sank in the rainy west.
It was vital that he know it at once when an important move was begun,
and as soon as the night came down, a score of the swiftest scouts were
called for. All were young men; most of them had been in McGlassin's
band. Rolf was conspicuous among them for his tall figure, but there
was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who had the reputation of being the
swiftest runner of them all.
They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether Prevost's
army was really retreating; second, what of the regiment he sent up the
Saranac to perform the flank movement.
Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some
followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another Vermonter,
skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded Cumberland Bend,
and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at the north side of
Treadwell's Bay.
Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight, set
off in three different westerly directions to strike the highway at
different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was given the northmost
route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals were arranged--in the woods
the barred-owl cry, by the water the loon; and they parted.
The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September night,
as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when he thought he
heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to relieve his ear-drums of
the heart-beat or to still the rushing of his breath.
In half an hour he reached the high-road. It was deserted. Then he heard
a cry of the barred owl:
Wa--wah--wa--wah Wa--wah--wa--hooooo-aw.
He replied with the last line, and the answer came a repeat of the whole
chant, showing that it might be owl, it might be man; but it was not the
right man, for the final response should have been the hooooo-aw. Rolf
never knew whence it came, but gave no further heed.
For a long time he sat in a dark corner, where he could watch the road.
There were sounds of stir in the direction of Plattsburg. Then later,
and much nearer, a couple of shots were fired. He learned afterward that
those shots were meant for one of his friends. At length there was a
faint tump ta tump ta. He drew his knife, stuck it deep in the ground,
then held the handle in his teeth. This acted like a magnifier, for now
he heard it plainly enough--the sound of a horse at full gallop--but so
far away that it was five minutes before he could clearly hear it while
standing. As the sound neared, he heard the clank of arms, and when it
passed, Rolf knew that this was a mounted British officer. But why, and
whither?
In order to learn the rider's route, Rolf followed at a trot for a mile.
This brought him to a hilltop, whither in the silent night, that fateful
north wind carried still the sound
te--rump te--rump te--rump.
As it was nearly lost, Rolf used his knife again; that brought the rider
back within a mile it seemed, and again the hoof beat faded, te--rump
te--rump.
“Bound for Canada all right,” Rolf chuckled to himself. But there was
nothing to show whether this was a mere despatch rider, or an advance
scout, or a call for reinforcements.
So again he had a long wait. About half-past ten a new and larger sound
came from the south. The knife in the ground increased but did not
explain it. The night was moonless, dark now, and it was safe to sit
very near the road. In twenty minutes the sound was near at hand in
five, a dark mass was passing along the road. There is no mistaking the
language of drivers. There is never any question about such and such a
voice being that of an English officer. There can be no doubt about
the clank of heavy wheels--a rich, tangy voice from some one in advance
said: “Oui. Parbleu, tows ce que je sais, c'est par la.” A body of about
one hundred Britishers, two or three wagons, guns, and a Frenchman for
guide. Rolf thought he knew that voice; yes, he was almost sure it was
the voice of Francios la Colle.
This was important but far from conclusive. It was now eleven. He was
due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast as he could
go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by occasional glimpses
of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing a furlong from the
landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:
Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.
After ten seconds the answer came:
Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.
And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:
Hoo-ooo.
Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his arm.
It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with the meagre
information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made light of his
trouble--it was a mere scratch--and reminded them that their orders were
to make sure of the enemy's movements. Therefore, it was arranged that
Seymour take back Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to
complete his scouting.
By one o'clock he was again on the hill where he had marked the
horseman's outward flight and the escorted guns. Now, as he waited,
there were sounds in the north that faded, and in the south were similar
sounds that grew. Within an hour he was viewing a still larger body
of troops with drivers and wheels that clanked. There were only two
explanations possible: Either the British were concentrating on Chazy
Landing, where, protected from MacDonough by the north wind, they
could bring enough stores and forces from the north to march overland
independent of the ships, or else they were in full retreat for Canada.
There was but one point where this could be made sure, namely, at the
forks of the road in Chazy village. So he set out at a jog trot for
Chazy, six miles away.
The troops ahead were going three miles an hour. Rolf could go five.
In twenty minutes he overtook them and now was embarrassed by their
slowness. What should he do? It was nearly impossible to make speed
through the woods in the darkness, so as to pass them. He was forced to
content himself by marching a few yards in their rear.
Once or twice when a group fell back, he was uncomfortably close and
heard scraps of their talk.
These left little doubt that the army was in retreat. Still this was the
mere chatter of the ranks. He curbed his impatience and trudged with
the troop. Once a man dropped back to light his pipe. He almost touched
Rolf, and seeing a marching figure, asked in unmistakable accents “Oi
soi matey, 'ave ye a loight?”
Rolf assumed the low south country English dialect, already familiar
through talking with prisoners, and replied: “Naow, oi oin't
a-smowking,” then gradually dropped out of sight.
They were nearly two hours in reaching Chazy where they passed the
Forks, going straight on north. Without doubt, now, the army was bound
for Canada! Rolf sat on a fence near by as their footsteps went tramp,
tramp, tramp--with the wagons, clank, clank, clank, and were lost in the
northern distance.
He had seen perhaps three hundred men; there were thirteen thousand to
account for, and he sat and waited. He did not have long to wait; within
half an hour a much larger body of troops evidently was approaching from
the south; several lanterns gleamed ahead of them, so Rolf got over the
fence, but it was low and its pickets offered poor shelter. Farther back
was Judge Hubbell's familiar abode with dense shrubbery. He hastened
to it and in a minute was hidden where he could see something of the
approaching troops. They were much like those that had gone before, but
much more numerous, at least a regiment, and as they filled the village
way, an officer cried “Halt!” and gave new orders. Evidently they were
about to bivouac for the night. A soldier approached the picket fence
to use it for firewood, but an officer rebuked him. Other fuel, chiefly
fence rails, was found, and a score or more of fires were lighted on the
highway and in the adjoining pasture. Rolf found himself in something
like a trap, for in less than two hours now would be the dawn.
The simplest way out was to go in; he crawled quietly round the house to
the window of Mrs. Hubbell's room. These were times of nervous tension,
and three or four taps on the pane were enough to arouse the good lady.
Her husband had come that way more than once.
“Who is it?” she demanded, through a small opening of the sash.
“Rolf Kittering,” he whispered, “the place is surrounded by soldiers;
can't you hide me?”
Could she? Imagine an American woman saying “No” at such a time.
He slipped in quietly.
“What news?” she said. “They say that MacDonough has won on the Lake,
but Plattsburg is taken.”
“No, indeed; Plattsburgh is safe; MacDonough has captured the fleet. I
am nearly sure that the whole British army is retiring to Canada.”
“Thank God, thank God,” she said fervently, “I knew it must be so; the
women have met here and prayed together every day, morning and night.
But hush!” she laid a warning finger on her lips and pointed up toward
one of the rooms--“British officer.”
She brought two blankets from a press and led up to the garret. At the
lowest part of the roof was a tiny door to a lumber closet. In this
Rolf spread his blankets, stretched his weary limbs, and soon was sound
asleep.
At dawn the bugles blew, the camp was astir. The officer in the house
arose and took his post on the porch. He was there on guard to protect
the house. His brother officers joined him. Mrs. Hubbell prepared
breakfast. It was eaten silently, so far as Rolf could learn. They paid
for it and, heading their regiment, went away northward, leaving the
officer still on the porch.
Presently Rolf heard a stealthy step in his garret, the closed door was
pushed open, and Mrs. Hubbell's calm, handsome face appeared, as, with a
reassuring nod, she set down a mug of coffee, some bread, and a bowl of
mush and milk. And only those who have travelled and fasted for twelve
hours when they were nineteen know how good it tasted.
From a tiny window ventilator Rolf had a view of the road in front.
A growing din of men prepared him for more troops, but still he was
surprised to see ten regiments march past with all their stores--a brave
army, but no one could mistake their looks; they wore the despondent air
of an army in full retreat.