There were wagons and buckboards to be had, but the road was rough,
so the three changed off as litter-bearers and brought him to the lake
where the swift and smooth canoe was ready, and two hours later they
carried him into the hospital at Plattsburg.
The leg was set at once, his wounds were dressed, he was warmed,
cleaned, and fed; and when the morning sun shone in the room, it was a
room of calm and peace.
The general came and sat beside him for a time, and the words he spoke
were ample, joyful compensation for his wounds. MacDonough, too, passed
through the ward, and the warm vibrations of his presence drove death
from many a bed whose inmate's force ebbed low, whose soul was walking
on the brink, was near surrender.
Rolf did not fully realize it then, but long afterward it was clear that
this was the meaning of the well-worn words, “He filled them with a new
spirit.”
There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over; there was
not a man in the town who doubted that his country's cause was won.
Three weeks is a long time to a youth near manhood, but there was much
of joy to while away the hours. The mothers of the town came and read
and talked. There was news from the front. There were victories on the
high seas. His comrades came to sit beside him; Seymour, the sprinter,
as merry a soul as ever hankered for the stage and the red cups of life;
Fiske, the silent, and McGlassin, too, with his dry, humorous talk;
these were the bright and funny hours. There were others. There came a
bright-checked Vermont mother whose three sons had died in service at
MacDonough's guns; and she told of it in a calm voice, as one who speaks
of her proudest honour. Yes, she rejoiced that God had given her three
such sons, and had taken again His gifts in such a day of glory. Had
England's rulers only known, that this was the spirit of the land that
spoke, how well they might have asked: “What boots it if we win a few
battles, and burn a few towns; it is a little gain and passing; for
there is one thing that no armies, ships, or laws, or power on earth,
or hell itself can down or crush--that alone is the thing that counts or
endures--the thing that permeates these men, that finds its focal centre
in such souls as that of the Vermont mother, steadfast, proud, and
rejoicing in her bereavement.”
But these were forms that came and went; there were two that seldom were
away--the tall and supple one of the dark face and the easy tread, and
his yellow shadow--the ever unpopular, snappish, prick-eared cur, that
held by force of arms all territories at floor level contiguous to,
under, comprised, and bounded by, the four square legs and corners of
the bed.
Quonab's nightly couch was a blanket not far away, and his daily,
self-given task to watch the wounded and try by devious ways and plots
to trick him into eating ever larger meals.
Garrison duty was light now, so Quonab sought the woods where the flocks
of partridge swarmed, with Skookum as his aid. It was the latter's
joyful duty to find and tree the birds, and “yap” below, till Quonab
came up quietly with bow and blunt arrows, to fill his game-bag; and
thus the best of fare was ever by the invalid's bed.
Rolf's was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week he was
eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily stronger.
Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the Indian
borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the highest
breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the whitening hills.
There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the
Shining One burnt the rugged world rim at Vermont, and, tapping softly
with one stick, he gazed upward, after the sacrificial thread of smoke,
and sang in his own tongue:
“Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is
singing.”
Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf's bedside. Stories
of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far away lakes and
streams, memories of golden haired children waiting for father's or
brother's return from the wars. Wives came to claim their husbands,
mothers to bring away their boys, to gain again their strength at home.
And his own heart went back, and ever back, to the rugged farm on the
shores of the noble George.
In two weeks he was able to sit up. In three he could hobble, and he
moved about the town when the days were warm.
And now he made the acquaintance of the prisoners. They were closely
guarded and numbered over a hundred. It gave him a peculiar sensation
to see them there. It seemed un-American to hold a human captive; but
he realized that it was necessary to keep them for use as hostages and
exchanges.
Some of them he found to be sullen brutes, but many were kind and
friendly, and proved to be jolly good fellows.
On the occasion of his second visit, a familiar voice saluted him with,
“Well, Rolf! Comment ca va?” and he had the painful joy of greeting
Francois la Colle.
“You'll help me get away, Rolf, won't you?” and the little Frenchman
whispered and winked. “I have seven little ones now on La Riviere, dat
have no flour, and tinks dere pa is dead.”
“I'll do all I can, Francois,” and the picture of the desolate home,
brought a husk in his voice and a choke in his throat. He remembered too
the musket ball that by intent had whistled harmless overhead. “But,” he
added in a shaky voice, “I cannot help my country's enemy to escape.”
Then Rolf took counsel with McGlassin, told him all about the affair
at the mill, and McGlassin with a heart worthy of his mighty shoulders,
entered into the spirit of the situation, went to General Macomb
presenting such a tale and petition that six hours later Francis bearing
a passport through the lines was trudging away to Canada, paroled for
the rest of the war.
There was another face that Rolf recognized--hollow-cheeked,
flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of the
prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not recognize
Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering. How he escaped
from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of the war's first year.
Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable wreck his uncle was. He could
not do him any good. To identify him would have resulted in his being
treated as a renegade, so on the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw
that the prisoner had extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept
him abundantly supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him,
and kept away. They never met again.
The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great battle. A
few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort and guard the
prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful partings--the men
with homes, going home. And the thought that ever waxed in Rolf came on
in strength. He hobbled to headquarters. “General, can I get leave--to
go--he hesitated--home?”
“Why, Kittering, I didn't know you had a home. But, certainly, I'll give
you a month's leave and pay to date.”
Champlain is the lake of the two winds; the north wind blows for six
months with a few variations, and the south wind for the other six
months with trifling.
Next morning a bark canoe was seen skimming southward before as much
north wind as it could stand, with Rolf reclining in the middle, Quonab
at the stern, and Skookum in the bow.
In two days they were at Ticonderoga. Here help was easily got at
the portage and on the evening of the third day, Quonab put a rope on
Skookum's neck and they landed at Hendrik's farm.
The hickory logs were blazing bright, and the evening pot was reeking as
they opened the door and found the family gathered for the meal.
“I didn't know you had a home,” the general had said. He should have
been present now to see the wanderer's welcome. If war breeds such a
spirit in the land, it is as much a blessing as a curse. The air was
full of it, and the Van Trumpers, when they saw their hero hobble in,
were melted. Love, pity, pride, and tenderness were surging in storms
through every heart that knew. “Their brother, their son come back,
wounded, but proven and glorious.” Yes, Rolf had a home, and in that
intoxicating realization he kissed them all, even Annette of the glowing
cheeks and eyes; though in truth he paid for it, for it conjured up in
her a shy aloofness that lasted many days.
Old Hendrik sputtered around. “Och, I am smile; dis is goood, yah. Vere
is that tam dog? Yah! tie him not, he shall dis time von chicken have
for joy.”
“Marta,” said Rolf, “you told me to come here if I got hurt. Well, I've
come, and I've brought a boat-load of stuff in case I cannot do my share
in the fields.”
“Press you, my poy you didn't oughter brung dot stuff; you know we
loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer, and dot
Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war.”
“Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!” and Annette
turned her scarlet cheeks away.
October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills; purple and
orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with white was the sky
above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.
“Oh, God of my fathers,” Quonab used to pray, “when I reach the Happy
Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf-falling Moon, for that is the only
perfect time.” And in that unmarred month of sunny sky and woodlands
purged of every plague, there is but one menace in the vales. For who
can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed woods without these two
begetting the dread red fury that devastates the hills?
Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze? Who,
indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in its growing
strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to meet in daily
meals and talk and still keep up the brother and sister play? It needs
only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to turn the comrade into Paul.
“Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don't quarrel bad, ain't it?”
“Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole,” said Marta, “I fink dat farm
next ours purty good, but Rolf he say 'No Lake George no good.' Better
he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson.”