Rolf's information was complete now, and all that remained was to report
at Plattsburg. Ten regiments he had counted from his peep hole. The
rear guard passed at ten o'clock. At eleven Mrs. Hubbell did a little
scouting and reported that all was quiet as far as she could see both
ways, and no enemy in sight anywhere.
With a grateful hand shake he left the house to cover the fourteen miles
that lay between Chazy and Plattsburg.
Refreshed and fed, young and strong, the representative of a just and
victorious cause, how he exulted in that run, rejoicing in his youth,
his country, his strength, his legs, his fame as a runner. Starting at
a stride he soon was trotting; then, when the noon hour came, he had
covered a good six miles. Now he heard faint, far shots, and going more
slowly was soon conscious that a running fight was on between his own
people and the body of British sent westward to hold the upper Saranac.
True to the instinct of the scout, his first business was to find out
exactly what and where they were. From a thick tree top he saw the
red-coats spotting an opening of the distant country. Then they were
lost sight of in the woods. The desultory firing became volley firing,
once or twice. Then there was an interval of silence. At length a mass
of red-coats appeared on the highway within half a mile. They were
travelling very fast, in full retreat, and were coming his way. On the
crest of the hill over which the road ran, Rolf saw them suddenly drop
to the ground and take up position to form a most dangerous ambuscade,
and half a mile away, straggling through the woods, running or striding,
were the men in the colours he loved. They had swept the enemy before
them, so far, but trained troops speedily recover from a panic, if they
have a leader of nerve, and seeing a noble chance in the angle of this
deep-sunk road, the British fugitives turned like boars at bay. Not a
sign of them was visible to the Americans. The latter were suffering
from too much success. Their usual caution seemed to have deserted them,
and trotting in a body they came along the narrow road, hemmed in by a
forest and soon to be hedged with cliffs of clay. They were heading for
a death-trap. At any price he must warn them. He slid down the tree, and
keeping cover ran as fast as possible toward the ambush. It was the only
hill near--Beekman's Rise, they call it. As far as possible from the
red-coats, but still on the hill that gave a view, he leaped on to a
high stump and yelled as he never did before: “Go back, go back! A
trap! A trap!” And lifting high his outspread hands he flung their palms
toward his friends, the old-time signal for “go back.”
Not twice did they need warning. Like hunted wolves they flashed from
view in the nearest cover. A harmless volley from the baffled ambush
rattled amongst them, and leaping from his stump Rolf ran for life.
Furious at their failure, a score of red-coats, reloading as they ran,
came hot-footed after him. Down into cover of an alder swamp he plunged,
and confident of his speed, ran on, dashing through thickets and
mudholes. He knew that the red-coats would not follow far in such a
place, and his comrades were near. But the alder thicket ended at a
field. He heard the bushes crashing close at hand, and dashed down a
little ravine at whose lower edge the friendly forest recommenced. That
was his fatal mistake. The moment he took to the open there was a rattle
of rifles from the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.
It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious for
an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that hollow,
absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued their flight
with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was covered with blood. His
coat was torn and bloody; his trousers showed a ragged rent that was
reddened and sopping. His head was aching, and in his leg was the pain
of a cripplement. He knew it as soon as he tried to move; his right leg
was shattered below the knee. The other shots had grazed his arm and
head; the latter had stunned him for a time, but did no deeper damage.
He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends
might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength. Then he
remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he was lost in the
woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out his flint and steel, and
prepared to make a fire. But all the small wood he could reach was wet
with recent rains. An old pine stump was on the bank not far away; he
might cut kindling-wood from that to start his fire, and he reached for
his knife. Alas! its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger,
he might have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an
unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how was he
to call his friends?
He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain and lay
for a while. The September sun fell on his back and warmed him. He was
parched with thirst, but only thirty yards away was a little rill. With
a long and fearful crawling on his breast, he dragged himself to the
stream and drank till he could drink no more, then rested, washed his
head and hands, 'and tried to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun
had dropped behind the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and
the chill of the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.
Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint
sayings, and one above all was clear:
“Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done yer best,
keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right.” Yes, that was what he
said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.
The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours brought
gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst strait of his lot.
Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to do but wait and die, and
from his groaning lips there came the half-forgotten prayer his mother
taught him long ago, “O God, have mercy on me!” and then he forgot.
When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but his
mind was clear.
“This is war,” he thought, “and God knows we never sought it.” And again
the thought: “When I offered to serve my country, I offered my life. I
am willing to die, but this is not a way of my choosing,” and a blessed,
forgetfulness came upon him again.
But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so quickly
quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax again. In the
chill, dark hour when the life-lamp flickers most, he wakened to hear
the sweet, sweet music of a dog's loud bark; in a minute he heard it
nearer, and yet again at hand, and Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful
Skookum, was bounding around and barking madly at the calm, unblinking
stars.
A human “halloo” rang not far away; then others, and Skookum barked and
barked.
Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid hand
on the dying soldier's brow, and his heart. He opened his eyes, the man
bent over him and softly said, “Nibowaka! it's Quonab.”
That night when the victorious rangers had returned to Plattsburg it
was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love ran strong.
The thrilling stories of the day were told, the crucial moment, the
providential way in which at every hopeless pass, some easy, natural
miracle took place to fight their battle and back their country's cause.
The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the
appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them--the
shooting, and his disappearance--all were discussed.
Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the
trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, “Where is Kittering?” So talk
was rife, and there was one who showed a knife he had picked up near the
ambuscade with R. K. on the shaft.
Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly left
the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb, his words
were few, but from his heart:
“It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go. I
feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go.”
It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks. “You
may go, but how can you find him tonight?”
“Ugh, I find him,” and the Indian pointed to a little, prick-eared,
yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.
“Success to you; he was one of the best we had,” said the general, as
the Indian left, then added: “Take a couple of men along, and, here,
take this,” and he held out a flask.
Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by his
three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking this way
and that--they should surely not be ambushed this time.
And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of disaster--the
loss of his knife--the thing of all others that roused in Rolf the
spirit of rebellion, was the way of life, his dungeon's key, the golden
chain that haled him from the pit.