LOST
When Roger had conducted Lord Howe to within a comparatively safe distance of
his destination, he left him to pursue his journey in company with another
party of scouts, who were going in that direction, whereas Roger was anxious
to gain the mountains on the western shore of Lake Champlain, where he foresaw
a struggle would shortly take place.
“We shall meet probably at Ticonderoga, or thereabouts,” said Howe, as he
wrung Roger’s hand at parting.
He left the three young officers, Philips, Pringle, and Roche, with Roger, to
complete their apprenticeship, he said; but William Parkmann accompanied Howe.
The young man’s devotion to his general was such that he was never happy away
from him. And truly Howe was a man worthy of the affection which he won at
every stage of his short career. A very Spartan in private and public life, a
Christian in word and deed, a character of ancient times, and a model of
military virtue: such was he. Of him, Wolfe, his great contemporary, said, “He
is the noblest gentleman who has appeared in my time, and the best soldier in
the British army.”
Regretfully Roger saw Howe depart. They had lived together for many months,
and each appreciated the other. Howe grieved for the sorrow and the bitterness
which had come into the young hunter’s life; but he hoped and believed time
would soften the rebellious temper which made him visit so unjustly Charles
Langlade’s offence upon innocent heads. “If you go back to Marshwood, remember
me at both Alpha and Omega,” he said at parting; and so each went his way.
The news of Roger’s last deed of prowess had spread rapidly. The Indians
attributed it to the power of the spirits, but the Canadians knew better. When
Charles Langlade heard the story, a feeling of pride filled his heart, almost
of regret that he had not been with him--his friend, his brother; but Roger
and his Rangers had now assumed such importance that they were looked upon as
representing a greater danger than the regular forces.
Understanding Indian warfare, with a perfect knowledge of the whole country,
led by a fearless leader, if they were not kept in check or crushed the
results would certainly be of such a nature as to threaten the free action of
the French and Canadian armies. It was therefore decided in a council of war
that an expedition of Indians and Canadians should be sent to meet the
Rangers, and, if possible, stop their progress. Charles Langlade saw the
necessity and justice of the step, but naturally he was loth to take part in
it, and would gladly have remained in the neighbourhood of Quebec; but his
knowledge of the country where the New England Rangers were likely at the
present moment to be was a reason for his being called to command the
expedition sent against them. In all honour he could not hold back; he had
cast in his lot with France, and he must needs stand steadfast to the bitter
end.
This war resembled in many ways a civil war--of all afflictions which can
visit a country the most terrible! Father against son, brother against
brother, the crushing beneath one’s feet of every domestic tie--a moral agony
from first to last. Rome and Alba, the Horatii and Curiatii, the Wars of the
Roses and the great English civil war of the seventeenth century, stand out in
the history of the world as times of sore distress and anguish. Blood flowed
freely. Some of the best and noblest in the land were laid low; but who
reckons the women’s tears of blood, the agony of those hearts torn with
divided affections? Fathers and husbands, brothers and lovers, drawing their
swords against each other--truly it needed an Amazonian nature to love a
country which demanded such sacrifices. The great French poet Corneille
understood the natural weakness of a woman’s heart when he pictured Camille,
the sister of Horace, kneeling over her dead lover’s body, cursing Rome and
the arm that had laid him low. So let us ever pray for peace at home and
abroad, the peace which reigned on earth when the Saviour was born, and which
we believe He will bring with Him at His second coming.
It was with a heavy heart that Charles Langlade, true to his sense of duty,
took the command of the Indian and Canadian contingent, and set out to meet
the Rangers, passing up the valley of Trout Brook, a mountain gorge that opens
upon the valley of Ticonderoga.
After leaving Howe, Roger had rejoined his men at the west point of the
mountain known as “Roger’s Rock,” thus named from an exploit in which he had
outwitted the Indians and saved his own and comrades’ lives when still a mere
youth. The rough and rocky ground was still partially covered with snow, and
all around stood the grey trunks of the forest trees, bearing aloft their
skeleton arms, a tangled intricacy of leafless twigs.
Here Roger encamped, knowing full well that the Indians were in the
neighbourhood; but the spot had natural advantages. Close on the right was a
steep hill, and at a little distance on the left a brook still partially
covered with snow and ice. He sent scouts out into the woods, and several
skirmishes took place; but he did not believe that at this point the Indians
were in any considerable force. He therefore determined to rid himself of
these enemies by pushing them farther back, and, being informed through his
scouts of the arrival of a reinforcement from one of the Iroquois tribes, he
judged it would be best to attack them at once.
Desiring Lieutenant Philips to remain in the rear, he himself advanced through
a mountain pass, at the farther extremity of which a party of Indians were
encamped. He took them by surprise, and after a short but desperate skirmish
they fled before him. Determined to drive them farther off, he pursued them,
when suddenly with a loud war-whoop they turned upon him, and from the
surrounding forest Indians came pouring down on him and his company. Philips
hurried to the rescue; but the little force was overwhelmed by numbers, and
eight officers, beside a hundred Rangers, lay dead in the snow.
The young lieutenants Pringle and Roche fought beside Roger.
“There is nothing left but for you to escape into the mountains,” he said at
last. “Make your way through the forest to Fort Edward. Do you see there to
the left a narrow pass? Escape whilst you can; in five minutes it will be too
late. I am responsible for your lives.”
“Where you go, we go,” said Pringle.
They were crouching with some twenty men behind a clump of trees firing upon
the savages, but their ammunition was running short. Philips in his turn was
being overwhelmed. From every part of the forest the redskins came pouring
down.
“It is of no use; we must run for it,” said Roger. “Load once more, and when I
say ‘fire’ give it them all together; then up the pass and into the mountains:
it is our only chance.”
He was obeyed. They poured a volley of shot into the ranks of the savages, who
fell back for a second; and before they had recovered themselves or the smoke
had cleared away, Roger and a score of his companions were in full flight. To
keep together was impossible; the Indians harassed them on every side. They
scaled mountains, forded streams, and at last, by nightfall, Roger, with a
handful of followers, had out-distanced his pursuers and lay hidden in a cave;
but, to his distress, Pringle, Roche, and his own faithful servant, William
Smith, were missing.
They had no food, and lay all night on the bare ground. When day dawned they
crept out, only to find traces of the enemy all around. Still it was
impossible to remain in the cave.
“Listen,” said Roger, “there is only one way of escape. Once, as you all know,
when a mere lad I scaled yonder mountain. On the opposite side there is a
precipice; it is perpendicular, and the chances are ten to one of breaking
your neck in the descent. I prefer that to being tomahawked. I advise no one
to follow me. The Indians, who are on the watch, will be sure to see me, and
that will make a diversion in your favour. If I succeed, once on the other
side, I shall have little difficulty in reaching Fort Edward. My presence
amongst you rather adds to than takes from the danger of your position. They
know I am here, and Roger’s scalp is, it seems, worth having. We will go forth
together, and make a run for it, till we come to the foot of Roger’s Mountain;
then I will turn off and begin the ascent. The Indians are sure to follow me.
Let them. I think I know a dodge or two to keep them at bay. You, in the
meantime, take to the woods. If you get well in and across to the other side
you may escape, but as long as I am with you your chances are small; they are
after me, and will not lose my track. Are you all agreed?”
They answered in the affirmative. Two or three were for accompanying Roger,
but he dissuaded them.
“You would but hamper my movements,” he said, “and probably come to grief. I
know every inch of the mountain, but you do not; you run less risk in keeping
together; and if I can get round in time I may muster a band and come to your
help. I wonder what has become of Philips?”
Alas! like many others, the brave young lieutenant had been cruelly murdered.
Moving in and out of the forest, dodging the Indians in every possible way,
the little party at last reached the foot of the mountain, grey and bare, its
summit rising to the clouds.
Suddenly, with a shout, Roger was seen scaling it. To follow him was the
natural instinct of the savages. He let them for a time; then suddenly he
turned round and fired down upon them. Several fell, but, nothing daunted,
they responded. Gradually, as the ascent grew more and more precipitous, they
dropped off, and the last they saw of Roger was standing on the edge of what
they knew to be a fathomless precipice. They saw him throw himself forward and
disappear from their sight. Half-way up the mountain they discovered his
bearskin, which he must have thrown off, and they carried it back in triumph.
Its owner was doubtless lying dashed to pieces in the abyss.
His companions had followed his advice, and most of them managed in the course
of two or three days to reach Lake St. George, and from thence Fort Edward.
The young lieutenants Pringle and Roche fared the worst. Separated from their
party, they got hopelessly lost in the woods. In the brushwood, among the low
branches of the trees, their clothes were soon reduced to rags. They had no
food except a small portion of dried sausage and a little ginger. After two
days’ and two nights’ wandering they had nothing to subsist upon but juniper
berries and the inner bark of trees. They fell in with Roger’s own servant,
William Smith, by whose help they made snowshoes of forked branches, twigs,
and leather strings; for their feet were torn to pieces and half-frozen. The
three struggled on together, wandering over nameless mountains, climbing over
fallen trees, until on the sixth day they discovered that they had circled
round to their starting-point! But at least now they knew their bearings, and
they reached the bank of Lake St. George. Here suddenly a heavy snowstorm
arose. They dared not stop; so, bending their heads to the storm, they fought
their way forward into the valley of Ticonderoga, not eight miles distant from
the French fort. In the struggle Pringle had lost his gun, and almost his
life; they determined therefore to surrender. Night found them once more in
the forest. Here, utterly exhausted, William Smith became delirious, laid
down, and died. To keep their blood in motion, and fearful lest if they moved
backwards or forwards they should once more lose themselves in the depths of
the forest, the two officers walked all night round and round a tree! In the
morning, half-dead, they made for the French fort. When they came in sight of
it, they hoisted a white handkerchief. Instantly two or three French officers
dashed forward and saved them from the Indians, who had almost laid hands upon
them.
They were conducted to the fort as prisoners of war, and kindly treated and
tended. Later on they were exchanged.
_Note._--Pringle died in 1800, senior Major-General of the British army.