THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES--A LONE GRAVE IN THE
FOREST--RETURN OF SPRING--NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.
At first the half-frozen leaves rustled crisp beneath the men's feet,
but Red-Eye led them through the darkness of the great forest, into
which hardly a ray of moonlight could find its way, and here the
ground was soft, and the leaves made no noise.
Red-Eye believed he had the scalp of the only spy hanging at his
girdle; but he might be mistaken, so every precaution was taken to
maintain an unbroken silence.
Ten of the friendly Indians, by Red-Eye's desire, had accompanied the
expedition, and these he spread out on both flanks and ahead, so that
if an enemy appeared they could give timely warning, and our fellows
would be ready to fight.
On and on they marched, for many weary hours; then at last, when near
daybreak, Red-Eye ordered a halt. The camp of the enemy was not far
distant.
Leaving the scouts well spread out, the guide now went on by himself.
He would soon return, he told the officers.
"I dare say it is safe enough, O'Reilly," said Major Drake, "but
precaution is part of a soldier's duty. We will keep our fellows
well together, and post sentries. This may be an ambuscade, you
know."
Daybreak was already spreading up in the east-by-south, when Red-Eye
once more glided into the camp.
"No good news," he said. "Red man's camp-fires are cold. But I find
the trail."
He now rolled himself in his blanket, and was soon fast asleep.
The wearied men, by Major Drake's advice, did the same, and the
needful rest was taken that should prove of so much importance when
they got, at last, hand to hand with the Indian foe.
Weary men sleep soundly, and three hours' slumber to a soldier on the
war-path will make him as fresh and strong as ten hours taken in a
stuffy room.
On again; on and on all that day, through woods and wilds, sometimes
climbing wooded hills, in the sides of which many huge bears had
their caves, and into which they retreated, growling and threatening,
as our men walked past.
Great was the temptation to Drake and O'Reilly to try conclusions
with some of the monsters. But the sound of a gun in these forests,
where, as Red-Eye expressed it, the very trees have ears and tongues,
might have given an alarm that would have rendered the expedition all
in vain.
Red-Eye himself said but little. He was too busily engaged, sticking
to the trail as a pointer follows the scent of game. This trail was
at times so much in evidence that even a white man could make it out;
at others difficult even for the red man himself to descry.
Sometimes it was divided and subdivided, seeming to go in a hundred
different directions, and it required the utmost skill then to
discover which was the right one.
There were rivers to be forded, also deep morasses to be crossed,
while at times a lake caused a long detour to be made.
Sometimes a strange Indian was met with, and was invariably made
prisoner.
At nightfall a halt was again called, and rest and food taken.
But Red-Eye seemed to need neither rest nor food. He left his party
once more, telling Major Drake he would return at moonrise.
How he could find his way through the dark of the forest, with
nothing save the stars to guide him, it is impossible to say.
The men lay down by their arms. No one was inclined to talk. They
were tired, and sleep alone could do them good.
It was midnight before Red-Eye once more glided into camp.
My grandfather, who had slept but for a very short time, was up and
watching for him.
His report was this:
"I travel many, many miles. Then I come to big, big hill. This I
climb and look far to the west. Ugh! I can see plenty camp-fires
light the sky, and my heart rejoices. I go nearer and nearer. Then
cat-music fall upon my ear, and I rejoice more."
"Cat-music, Red-Eye?"
"Cat-music--the wild music of your people."
"You mean the great Highland bagpipes."
"It is that. It is that. Your Tonal play to the chief, and they
much rejoice."
"With God's help," said my grandfather, "we'll change their tune."
The whole camp was speedily astir now. According to Red-Eye, they
would have only about seven miles to traverse, but, at the slow and
creeping pace they needs must travel, it would take them about three
hours at least to do the journey, for they would have to be as silent
and cautious as panthers.
It was midnight when they started, and the moon shone bright in every
clearing. But they still had to keep well into the darkling of the
woods, for it was unlikely that a savage tribe of Indians like the
Micmacs would squat around their tent-fires without posting sentries
and scouts.
This made one of the chief difficulties in the way of effecting a
rescue.
Another difficulty was even more formidable. So, at all events, it
appeared to grandfather. It lay in the fact that, if the enemy's
camp was not captured by very sudden surprise, the savages would,
doubtless, spear poor Tonal, while they who had possession of little
Mary would strangle her.
This last thought was a horror of horrors that made my grandfather
almost delirious.
If anything happened to his child, he determined that he would never
return. He would follow the savages alone. Without doubt, he would
pay the penalty of such rashness with his life: but he would sell
this dearly.
Without adventures of any sort, though often startled by the growling
of some bear, or the mournful cry of the great brown owl, they crept
stealthily on. After a time, however--and how very long that time
had seemed to my poor grandfather it need scarcely be told--a sound
of another sort fell on the listening ears of the Royal Scots. It
was the wail of the bagpipe playing a coronach, or lament.
How solemn and sad it was, rising thus from the depths of the
midnight forest!
It stopped suddenly; and once more the little army marched onwards.
They could not be far off now, so double caution must be exercised.
Red-Eye soon lifted his hand as a signal for the halt. Then he
touched Major Drake and my grandfather on the shoulder, and beckoned
to them to follow.
When about seventy yards off, Red-Eye lay down for a moment with one
ear close to the ground.
This is the savages' telephone, and it is wonderful what sounds they
can thus hear.
The very earth seems to talk to them, and confess its secrets.
He crept forward now on hands and knees, the others following his
example.
Suddenly a glimmer of light could be seen rising high up on the
pine-trees beyond, and next moment they were looking down over a rock
into the camp of the red men.
If the Indians have more acute hearing than we pale-faces, they have
also better eyesight. Neither Drake nor my grandfather could
distinguish anything very well in the uncertain light of the
camp-fires, that darted up through the rolling clouds of smoke, and
struggled confusingly with the moonbeams.
There were but two tents in the camp, which was pitched low down in
an open glade, near to a little lake or pool. Both were made of
green pine-boughs. The larger, near to which lay poor Tonal, now
bound hand and foot, no doubt belonged to the chief and his squaw.
The other, it was equally certain, contained Mary and her attendant.
Red-Eye and his companions now drew back a little, and held a
whispered conversation--a council of war.
My grandfather wished to make a sudden dash on the foe, but Red-Eye
shook his head.
"No, no, no," he said: "Indian too quick--kill Tonal, kill child of
my heart too."
Then he proposed his own plan.
He would creep snake-like towards the camp, cut the cords that bound
poor Tonal, then dash straight to the smaller tent, and seize the
child.
By this time the camp would be roused, and the soldiers must come to
the rescue.
This plan was adopted, and away glided Red-Eye on his truly dangerous
mission.
The men were brought as close to the camp of the enemy as safety
would admit of, and my grandfather and Major Drake once more took up
their position on the rock from which they could see the camp-fires.
For the present, all they could do was to wait and watch.
At no period of his life, my grandfather has told me, did he ever
experience such terrible anxiety as that which he now felt.
How very, very long the time seemed!
At last his head sank on the moss. He could bear to look no longer.
What a blessing it is that God is near us wherever we go, and that we
can always pray.
But hark!
There is the sound of a musket far down beneath.
Then a yell.
"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."
The whole camp down yonder is in motion, the savages are rushing
hither and thither like a nest of hornets. The fires are being
rapidly extinguished--this is the work of the squaws. But as yet no
savage knows whence the danger will come. They are already armed,
however, with bow and spear and musket.
See! see!
The retreating figure of an Indian can be distinguished by them,
making his way eastwards, and bearing something in his arms.
Twang go the bows, muskets are discharged, but still he hurries on.
But now, high above the ear-splitting yells of the savage foe, rises
the war-cry of our men, as they dash down to the charge with bayonets
fixed.
That was an ugly fight while it lasted.
A battle bloody but brief.
Our fellows spared none, their bayonets doing the work until the
savages broke and fled. Then volley after volley was fired, until
all had disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Dr. McLeod had fought his way to the chief's tent, and near it he
found Tonal, still bound, for Red-Eye had been discovered before he
had had time to cut his bonds.
"God bless you! God bless you, Dr. Mac!" he cried, as the giant
lifted him on his back as deftly as one might lift a child.
"But man! man! the pipes! I'll no go a single inch without my
bagpipes."
Hastily Dr. McLeod picked up the bagpipes, then speedily rushed back
in the direction Red-Eye had taken.
Little Mary was running to meet him. Safe and sound she was, but
crying bitterly.
"Po' Led-Eye! O, po' Led-Eye! He is all blooded and dead."
Dr. McLeod now cut Tonal's cords, then hurried to the spot where the
poor faithful fellow lay. It was evident that life was fast ebbing
away, but the doctor did what he could to stanch the bleeding.
He administered a little brandy, and Red-Eye seemed to revive. It
was but as the glimpse of sunshine that precedes the summer storm,
and of this Red-Eye appeared to be fully aware.
When my grandfather and the others ran up after the savages had fled,
they found Tonal supporting Red-Eye on his breast, and the child
sitting near, quietly weeping. She rushed into her father's arms.
"But O, daddy," she entreated, "tan oo save po' Led-Eye, 'fore he
dies, and does (goes) away to a dark hole?"
"He is sinking fast," said Dr. McLeod, as my grandfather knelt beside
the dying man.
"I will take little Mary away."
"No, no, no," cried the child; "I sit by po' Led-Eye all the time."
And down she sat.
Red-Eye tried to lift his hand towards Mary. She took the poor
scarred hand that she had often nursed before, and the faithful
fellow seemed more peaceful now.
"Lead me--through--the darkness," he murmured--"to the land of the
Great White Spirit."
These were the last words he spoke. His own spirit fled.
Grandfather closed his eyes.
His bitterest thought at that moment was that he had ever doubted
this poor Indian, who had given his life to save the child.
* * * * *
So sudden had been the attack upon the savages that few of our
fellows were wounded--none dangerously--and no one was killed.
The nearest route was now taken towards the camp. So a litter of
boughs was made, and the corpse of Red-Eye, covered with leaves, was
borne along with them. They would not bury him at a place where
there was the slightest chance of the savages desecrating his grave.
But when they got once more within sight of the Fort, and not far
from the camp, a grave was dug, and the Indian hero laid to rest.
Accompanied by Tonal, every morning, as long as a wild flower was to
be had, my wee mother visited the grave, to place on the green mound
some little floral tribute to the memory of her never-to-be-forgotten
playmate and friend.
But winter came at last, and covered all the land in robes of white.
As severe a winter, probably, as ever had been experienced in Canada.
But British soldiers are capable of roughing it in any climate, and
few, if any, fell victims to the terrible frost.
Winter wore away, and one day Mary, the daughter of the regiment,
rushed to tell her mother that flowers were growing in the woods, and
that once more Red-Eye's grave was green.
* * * * *
* * * * *
If I happened to come across a village school anywhere, during my
summer rambles in my caravan, in which there were boys who had never
heard of Quatre Bras, of Napoleon's return from the beautiful and
romantic island of Elba, and of the memorable battle of Waterloo, I
should borrow the teacher's tawse or cane, and lay it on
unmercifully. Not on the boys--pray do not mistake me--but on the
teacher himself, unless he happened to be a much bigger and more
active man than myself, in which case I--I--well, discretion, you
know, is the better part of valour!
It was a lasting sorrow with my dear grandfather that the transport
in which he and the rest of his company recrossed the Atlantic did
not get home in time to give them a chance of sharing in the glories
of Waterloo. This was partly owing to stress of weather, but mostly
to the fact that she got her fore-foot on a sand-bank, and there lay
for a week. This one single week made all the difference 'twixt
glory and the loss of it.
Peace was proclaimed at last, and a lasting peace it proved.
The Highland battalion was no more thought of, and shortly after the
war was over, not only my grandfather, but his two friends, Tom
Grahame and Tonal, left the army and returned to their own country.
For many years they lived within easy hail of each other, and met
together, to talk of old times and of the future, almost every night.
Tonal's bonnie black-eyed bairns, and "Tom Grahame's baby," as Annie
continued to be called, were brought up at the same school, and
although changes came and separation too, they were friends as long
as they lived.
Both O'Reilly and Major Drake retired shortly before my grandfather
left the Service, and brave, sturdy Dr. McLeod took up a practice in
Glasgow. His name had been mentioned in many a despatch; that was
all, for in those days there were no Victoria Crosses.
One day--how well I remember it, though but a child--a hale, hearty
old man came to see my grandfather, at his cottage, and a right merry
afternoon and evening they spent.
"They fought their battles o'er again,
And thrice they slew the slain."
* * * * * *
Napoleon Bonaparte was sent, as you all know, to spend the remainder
of his days and chafe his life away on a sea-girt rock, called St.
Helena.
It is really one of the most charming islands in the tropical ocean.
It is a long time now since his grave, down in a cool, green hollow,
in a grove of trees, was vacated, for the French were permitted at
last to take their dead hero home.
The house, a far from pretentious one, stood and stands on a bold,
bare bluff, out-looking as blue a sea as anyone ever beheld. To the
left, as you approach the house, far down beneath, is the green glen
where the grave was dug; but behind you, if you turn your gaze, the
scenery is well-wooded and mountainous.
Truly a lovely island, but this end of it is lonesome in the extreme,
and surely in such a place as this, watched night and day by ships
and soldiers, this eagle-hearted genius of war must have found his
punishment almost greater than he could bear.
Before visiting the house, I went to the grave, and was permitted to
cull some large pink flowers, which were afterwards stolen from my
cabin on board H.M.S. _Valorous_.
The interior of the house itself, and its rooms, reminded me of
hospital wards.
Hung up near to a bed was a placard, worded somewhat as follows:
"If these walls could speak, and tell the story of the great man's
sufferings in this room, it would melt the hardest heart to tears."
And this, then, was the end of a life of cruelty and ambition.
Heigho!
"So sinks the pride of former days,
When glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that then beat high with praise
Now feel that pulse no more."
THE END