Читать книгу Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems - J. R. Wilkinson - Страница 19

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Thus gain they the dark hillocks

By the Carrying Place,

And like phantoms take position

The waiting foe to face.

Aye, waiting were the Voyageurs,

In silence, but prepared;

Not as Mitwaos expected,

To be surprised and snared.

De Orville became suspicious

Of the distant, sullen mood

Of the Ojibways, and took counsel

And the usual course pursued;

Facing the impending danger,

Placed sentries on the rounds,

Alert to the slightest movement,

Awake to the faintest sounds.

The fires were allowed to smoulder,

And, fearing no alarms,

Their appointments in good order,

In ranks they lay on their arms.

But Le Jeune, whose tour of duty

Was at the midnight drear,

Was disturbed by sounds peculiar

That fell weirdly on the ear.

The hoot of the owl repeated,

The cry of whippoorwill,

Nearer, and ever nearer,

Through darkness dense and still.

Then swiftly rousing de Orville,

They learn the foe is nigh,

And quietly rouse the voyageurs,

Prepared to win or die.

So coolly they wait the onset,

And just at the dawn’s pale light

Comes a flight of hissing arrows,

And on the fading night

Bursts a yell all fierce and hideous,

As, opening the affray,

By a wild rush to overwhelm

They hope to win the day.

But bursts the crash of arquebuse

And roar of musketoon,

And the fatal stroke of halberd,

And swords that deal death’s doom.

And the Ojibways reel backward

With many a brave laid low,

Close beside the silver waters,

With their gentle ebb and flow.

But the Ojibways, though repellèd,

Are firm and undismayed;

And fiercely they rush down again

From the dense cedar shade.

Preceded by a hail of arrows,

With tomahawk, spear, and knife,

They spring to deadly encounter,

Hand to hand, and life for life!

But again out-crash the arquebuse,

And roar the musketoons;

Delivered is the scathing fire

By sections and platoons.

The brave Ojibways are falling fast,

But they fiercely press the foe,

And shouts and cries are ringing

As they stagger to and fro.

And stern Mitwaos, unflinching,

A lofty soul so brave,

Calmly and proudly directing,

Death-dealing strokes he gave.

And on the right, Leaping Panther,

Gallantly leading the way,

By example to his warriors

Must surely win the day.

Lone Wolf on the left is foremost,

An avalanche in the storm

Of battle, sternly raging there

On that September morn!

Again they are driven backward,

With ranks bloody and torn;

But they rally, and charge again,

Though of many red braves shorn.

Once more for their homes and nation—

They’ll leap on the foe once more,

And wrest from him the victory,

Or die by Pelee’s shore.

Again rose their shout of defiance,

Their bosoms were aflame;

And those fearless, dusky heroes

Rushed to the carnage again.

De Orville had not been idle,

But detached the brave Le Jeune

To turn their flank by the marshlands,

And, in the onset, soon

To fall on the rear of Mitwaos

With the deadly musketoons—

Two score of valiant Frenchmen,

With volleys by platoons.

The shouts of the enraged combatants,

As on each other they fell,

And the roar of the musketoons

Seemed as a blast from hell!

The air was hissing with arrows,

As they closed in the strife;

Spear, tomahawk, knife, and warclub

Drank many a Frenchman’s life.

But the lance, the sword, and halberd

Do well their deadly work;

Not once do those gallant Frenchmen

The fiery ordeal shirk.

Ha! see, where the fight grows deadly,

Meet de Orville and Mitwaos—

Proudly seeking each other,

Their deadly weapons cross.

And as the red lightning’s flash

They come to the fierce assault,

And mighty blows fall fast like hail;

They spring like panthers, and vault,

To thrust, to guard, and to ward

The crushing blow of the brands,

Followed swift by skilful strokes

Delivered by master hands.

De Orville is cool and collected,

With sinews strong as steel;

Mitwaos he hath sorely wounded—

Ah! see the totter and reel

Of the unyielding chieftain,

Who sinks, aye, sinks and dies!

And the Ojibways’ hearts are broken;

List to their mournful cries!

Just then from the south came crashing

The fire of brave Le Jeune;

And the red men fell thick and fast

To the roar of musketoon.

Assailed from the front and the rear,

And their brave chieftain dead,

A panic seized upon them,

And they turned by the shore and fled!

Fled southward, beyond the hillocks,

Leaving their wounded and slain—

Never again to know freedom,

But degradation and pain!

There was mourning in the wigwams

For the braves that came no more—

Gone to be with Manitou—

And the nation’s heart is sore.

And many an Indian maiden

Pined in the cedar shade,

And the tender Singing Redbird

Soon in her grave was laid;

And many an Indian mother,

Once joyous as the day,

Mourned for her sons death-silenced,

And forever hid away.

And the old men sit in silence

Beside the sobbing shore;

Hushed is the song and laughter,

It resoundeth nevermore

Through cedar and pine glades ever

Rustling to and fro,

Just as the winds caressed them

Three hundred years ago!