Читать книгу Gleaner Tales - Robert Sellar - Страница 5

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On descending from his sleeping place, Morton found the woman preparing breakfast, and, looking into the adjoining room, saw that three of its inmates were still sleeping surrounded by the litter of their night’s carousal. Stepping out of doors, he was surprised by the beauty of the sylvan scene. The air had the freshness and the sky the deep tender-blue that follows a thunder-storm, and the sunshine glittered on the smooth surface of the river that, in all its windings, was overhung by towering trees, except where small openings had been made by the settlers, from which peeped their white shanties. The eminence which had excited his curiosity the night before, he perceived to be an island, with a largish house at its base, flanked by a wind-mill. At the landing, was the bateau, with a group of men. Approaching them, he found the captain, whose bloodshot eyes alone indicated his excess of the preceding night. “Ah, Morton,” he exclaimed, “you were the only wise man among us; you have your wits about you this morning. For me, I had a few hours’ pleasure I now loathe to think of and a racking headache. Come, let us have a swim and then go to breakfast.”

Following him to the nook he sought, Morton told of his shot at the spy. The captain listened attentively to the story. “I hope you winged him,” he said, “but he will escape. The settlers, except a few Old Countrymen, are all in sympathy with the Yankees, and will shelter and help him to get away. We cannot make a move that word is not sent to the enemy. I will warn the Indians to look out for him. Had it not been for the rain, they could trace him to his lair.”

On returning to the house, they found their comrades trying to make themselves presentable and sat down to a breakfast of fried pork and sour bread, to which Morton did ample justice. The commissariat officer told him he could not start for some time, as carts were few and the rain would have filled the holes in the track called a road. He could have forwarded him more quickly by canoes, but there was a risk of wetting the powder at the rapids. It was noon before sufficient carts arrived to enable Morton to start, when a laborious journey ensued, the soldiers being called on constantly to help the undaunted ponies to drag the cart-wheels out of the holes in which they got mired. When they had gone a few miles the carts halted and the kegs were placed in boats, which conveyed them to their destination. Camp La Fourche was found to consist of a few temporary buildings, or rather sheds, which, with the barns and shanties of the settlers near by, housed a few hundred men, of whom few were regulars. Morton’s orders were to remain and time passed heavily, the only excitement being when a scout came in with reports of the movements of the American army on the frontier, which were generally exaggerated. The camp had been purposely placed at the forks of the English and Chateaugay rivers, to afford a base of operations against the invader, should he approach either by way of the town of Champlain or of Chateaugay. Morton relieved the tedium of waiting by hunting and fishing, for his proper duties were slight. At first he did not venture into the woods without a guide, but experience quickly taught one so active and keen of observation sufficient bush-lore to venture alone with his pocket-compass. The fishing, at that late season, was only tolerable, and while he enjoyed to the full the delight of skimming the glassy stretches of both rivers in a birch canoe, he preferred the more active motion and greater variety of traversing the pathless woods with his gun. He had been in camp over a week when he started for an afternoon’s exploring of the woods. After an hour’s tramp he struck the trail of what he believed to be a bear. Following it was such pleasant exercise of his ingenuity that he took no note of time, and he had traversed miles of swamp and ridge before prudence cried halt. The sun was sinking fast, and to retrace his track was out of the question. He resolved to strike due north, which he knew would take him to the Chateaugay where he would find shelter for the night. The flush of the sunset was dying from the sky when he emerged from the woods on the banks of the river, which flowed dark and silent between the endless array of trees which sentinelled it on either side. Threading his way downward he, in time, came upon a clearing—a gap in the bush filled with ripening grain and tasselled corn. The shanty, a very humble one, stood at the top of the bank, with the river at its feet. Gratified at the prospect of rest, he paused before swinging himself over the rude fence. There rose in the evening air the sound of singing: it was a psalm-tune. The family were at worship. Reverently the soldier uncovered his head and listened. The psalm ended, he could hear the voice of supplication, though not the words. When Morton approached the house he saw a heavily-built man leave the door to meet him.

“Gude e’en, freen; ye’re oot late. But I see ye’re are o’ the military and your wark caas ye at a’ hoors. Is there ony news o’ the Yankee army?”

Morton explained he had not been on duty but had got belated in hunting and craved the boon of shelter until morning, for which he would pay.

“Pay! say ye. A dog wearing the King’s colors wad be welcome to my best. You maun be new to this country to think the poorest settler in it wad grudge to share his bite with ony passerby. Come your ways; we are richt glad to see you.”

Entering the shanty Morton was astounded at the contrast between the homelike tidiness of the interior and the rudeness of the exterior, everything being neatly arranged and of spotless cleanliness. “Truly,” he thought, “it is not abundance that makes comfort, but the taste and ingenuity to make the best of what we have.” The glow of the log-fire in the open chimney was supplemented by the faint light afforded by a candle made from deer-fat, which showed him a tall young woman, who came forward to shake hands without the slightest embarrassment, an elderly woman, evidently the mother, who kept her seat by the fire, explaining she “wasna very weel,” and two stout young men.

“Sit in by the fire, Mr Morton; there is a snell touch in the evening air that makes it no unpleasant, and Maggie will get ye something to eat. An hae ye nae news frae the lines? Does it no beat a’ that thae Yankees, wha mak such pretensions to be the only folk i’ the warld wha understan what liberty is, should fail in practice? What hae we done that they shud come in tae disturb us? Hae we nae richt to live doucely and quietly under our appointed ruler, that they should come into our ain country to harry and maybe kill us? Dod, they are a bonny lot! In the name o’ freedom drawing the sword to help the oppressor of Europe and the slaughterer of thousands of God’s children by creation, if no by adoption.”

“We have the comfort,” replied Morton, “that they have not got Canada yet.”

“An never will,” replied the settler, “there’s no an Auld Countryman on the Chateaugay wha wad na sooner tint life an a’ than gie up his independence. My sons an mysel are enrolled in Captain Ogilvie’s company and mair Yankees than they count on will hansel it’s ground afore they win oor puir biggin.”

“Dinna speak sae, gudeman,” said his wife, “tho’ the Lord may chastise he will not deliver us to the oppressor, but, as with the Assyrian, will cause him, gin he come doon on us, to hear a rumor that shall make him to return to his own land. We are but a feeble folk here by the river-side, but He winna fail them wha trust Him.”

Maggie here beckoned the young officer to draw to the table, and the bread and milk tasted all the sweeter to him that they had been spread by so winsome a damsel. After supper Morton was glad to fall in with the family’s custom of going early to bed, and accompanying the lads, whom he found to be frank, hearty fellows, to the outbuilding, slept comfortably alongside them on top of the fragrant fodder. At daylight they were astir, when their guest joined them in their labors, until a shout from Maggie told of breakfast being ready. Seen by daylight the favorable impression made upon Morton the previous evening was deepened, and he did not know which most to admire, her tact which never placed her at a disadvantage or the deftness with which she discharged her household duties. Reluctantly he left, accepting readily the invitation to revisit them. In a couple of hours he was in camp and reported himself.

The acquaintance thus accidentally formed was cultivated by Morton, and few evenings passed that his canoe did not end its journey at the foot of the bank whence the settler’s shanty overlooked the Chateaugay. The more he knew of the family the more he was attracted, and before long he was on familiar terms with all its members. The inaction of camp-life in the backwoods ceased to be wearisome and there was a glow and a joyousness in his days which he had never before known. So it came, that when, one afternoon, the orderly-sergeant notified him the officer in command desired to see him, the prospect of being sent away caused him a pang of vexation. His orders were to be ready to start at daylight for the frontier with despatches for the Indian guard and to collect what information he could with regard to the American army encamped at Four Corners. “I trust to your discretion,” said the officer, “as to what means you will use to get it, but we want to know the extent of the force and the prospect of their moving. I will give you an Indian as a guide, and one who speaks English.” Morton withdrew, pleased that the order was not one of recall to his regiment at Montreal, and spent the evening with the Forsyths. The news of his departure, on an errand that involved some danger, even though it would last only a few days, dampened the innocent mirth of the household and the soldier was vain enough to think Maggie gave his hand a warmer pressure than usual when he left. He rose with the first streak of daylight and had finished his breakfast when he was told his guide was waiting. Hastily strapping his cloak on his back and snatching up his musket, he went out and beheld an Indian standing stolidly on the road. Morton noted that he was taller than the average of his race, and, despite his grizzled hair, gave every sign of unabated vigor. He was dressed in native fashion and his face was hideous with war-paint. Without uttering a word, he led the way and they were soon buried in the woods. The Indian’s pace, considering the nature of the ground and the obstacles presented, was marvellously rapid, and induced no fatigue. Morton vigorously exerted himself to keep up with him and, as he did so, admired the deftness with which the Indian passed obstacles which he laboriously overcame. The ease and smoothness with which the red man silently slipped through thickets and fallen trees, he compared to the motion of a fish, and his own awkwardness to that of a blindfolded man, who stumbled at every obstacle. They had travelled thus for over two hours when suddenly the Indian halted, peered carefully forward, and then signed to Morton to stand still. Falling on his knees the guide crept, or rather glided forward. Disregarding his sign, Morton shortly followed until the object of the Indian’s quest came in sight. Three deer were grazing on a natural meadow by the side of a creek. Slowly the hunter raised his gun and its report was the first intimation the timid creatures had that an enemy was near. The youngest and plumpest had fallen; the others bounded into the bush. Standing over the graceful creature, whose sides still palpitated, the Indian said, “Lift.” It was the first word he had uttered. Morton drew the four hoofs together and did so. “Put on your shoulder,” added the guide. Morton laughed and set the animal down; he could lift it but to carry it was out of the question. Without moving a feature, the Indian grasped the deer by its legs, swung it round his neck, and stepped out as if the load were no burden, and which he bore until the swamp was passed and a ridge was reached, when he tied the hoofs together with a withe and swung the carcase from as lofty a branch as he could reach. Half an hour afterwards he pointed to a slight disturbance in the litter of the forest. “Indian passed here this morning.”

“How do you know it was an Indian?”

“By mark of moccasin.”

“But some white men wear moccasins.”

“Yes, but white man steps differently. The wild duck flies no more like the tame duck than the Indian walks like the pale face.”

Following the trail thus struck, they were soon hailed by a scout and in the midst of the camp of the frontier guard they sought. Morton counted seventeen Indians lounging or sleeping about the fire, and was told there were as many more lurking in the bush, watching the enemy, who had, of late, been sending in strong parties to make petty raids upon the few settlers who lived on the Canadian side of the boundary. As the captain was absent and would not be back until the afternoon, Morton could only await his return, and the rest was not unwelcome, for the rapid journey had induced some fatigue, and he was interested in watching the Indians, this being his first experience with them apart from white men. They paid much deference to his guide, whose name he now learned was Hemlock, and the Indian of whom he made enquiry told him the reason was that he was the son of a great sachem in a tribe now destroyed, and was “a big medicine.” Hemlock accepted their tributes to his superiority with unmoved countenance and as a matter of course, until, after a long pow-wow, he stretched himself on the ground, face-downwards, and went to sleep. Associating the Indians with gloomy moroseness, and a stolidity insensible alike to pain or mirth, Morton was surprised to see how, when left to themselves, they chattered like children, laughed, and played boyish tricks upon one another, and regretted he could not understand what they were saying. If he had, he would have found their talk was the shallowest of banter.

Late in the afternoon the captain returned and warmly welcomed Morton. Although dressed like an Indian, his only distinguishing feature being a captain’s scarlet sash, Captain Perrigo was a white man and English in speech, his familiarity with the Indians and their language having been acquired during his residence at Caughnawaga. He was thoroughly conversant with all that was passing in the American camp and expressed his belief that only the timidity of General Hampton prevented a move on Canada. The force was so strong and well-equipped that he believed it could not be checked until the island of Montreal was reached. “How can so large an army move through these woods?” asked Morton; “why, even your handful of Indians could cut up a regiment in half an hour.”

“You forget,” replied Perrigo, “that the larger part of these American soldiers have been reared on farms and are familiar with the bush. They are at home with the axe, and have scouts as well-trained to bush-fighting as our own. Worse than that, many of the American settlers who left the Chateaugay and the other Huntingdon settlements at the declaration of war are with them as guides.”

“I should like to see the American army,” said Morton.

“That is easy; we reconnoitre their camp this evening and you may go with us.”

By this time dinner was ready and it was more appetizing than Morton looked for. Hemlock, on his arrival, had told where he had left the carcase of the deer, which two of the Indians went for and returned with it slung between them on a pole. This they had cooked along with pieces of fat pork. The venison, for a wonder, proved to be tender and succulent, and was eaten with biscuit, of which there was an abundance. When the time came to move, Perrigo gave the word, when 28 of his men fell into line, Hemlock and Morton accompanying them. They moved in silence in single file, the fleetest runner of their number leading about two hundred yards ahead, to see that the way was clear. No word was spoken except when, on gaining the summit of a stony knoll, Perrigo whispered to Morton that they had crossed the boundary and were in the United States. As they proceeded they moved more slowly, showing they were nearing the enemy, and twice their scout signalled to them to halt while he reconnoitred. The second time Perrigo went forward and they waited while he scanned the enemy’s position. On returning, they moved westward, when the accustomed sound of the tramp of a numerous body of troops met the ear of Morton, followed by the commands of the adjutant. Motioning to Morton to follow him, Perrigo cautiously crept forward to a clump of undergrowth, and peering through it the American camp was seen. To the right stood the cluster of wooden buildings which formed the village of Four Corners, and on the fields that sloped up from it southwards, shone peacefully in the setting sun long rows of white tents. On a small field between the camp and the village two regiments were being drilled; at one corner was a body of mounted officers observing them. The woods, in which the British party lay concealed, so closely hemmed in the thin line of buildings that formed the village, that the parade-ground was not over 300 yards distant.

Morton scanned the troops as they went through their evolutions and marked, with some complacency, that, although tall and wiry men, they were slouchy in their movements and marched like dock-laborers. “Could we not give those fellows a fright?” he whispered to Perrigo.

“If we were sure their patrols are not out we could. If they are, they might flank us.”

“No danger,” interposed Hemlock, “see!” and he pointed to the guard-house, where the men detailed for the night’s patrols were waiting.

“All right,” answered Perrigo, “I will send two or three to creep round to the bush on the right to cause a diversion.”

“Stay,” said Morton, “I want to get a closer view and Hemlock will go with me.”

It was so decided upon, and while they picked their way to the west, Perrigo busied himself in extending his little force along the edge of the woods, so as to make their numbers appear formidable. The most dangerous part of Morton’s movement was crossing two roads, but Hemlock, who knew the ground thoroughly, selected parts where there were bends, so that they could not be seen by travellers approaching either way. When Hemlock dropped on all fours and crept he was followed by Morton, who found he was at the edge of the field on which the drill was in progress. The troops had gone through the routine movements and were drawn up in line, awaiting the inspection of the general officer, who, with his escort, was riding from the lower part of the field. A stout, elderly man rode in advance on a splendid black horse. Hemlock whispered it was General Hampton. As they drew nearer Morton started in amaze, for among his staff, despite his handsome uniform, he recognized the countenance of the spy he had twice shot at. His astonishment was checked by a gurgling sound of anger from his companion, and turning he saw that Hemlock had partly risen, grasping his musket as if about to fire, his face so swollen with rage that the cords of the neck stood out. “Stop,” said Morton, as he clutched his buckskin jacket, “if we fire now while they are in rank we are lost; wait until they are dismissed and in disorder.”

“I care not; thrice have I missed him of late; now he falls and Hemlock is revenged.” He pulled the trigger, but the flint snapped harmlessly, for the priming had been lost. The disappointment restored his self-possession and he drew back with a scowl that made Morton’s flesh creep. On the cavalcade of officers came, chatting unconcernedly, and wheeled within twenty yards of where Morton stood. He had a good view of the spy’s face, and he thought he had never seen one where cunning and selfishness were so strongly marked. “A man who would kill his mother if she stood in his way,” muttered Morton. “And for his passing pleasure tear out the heart of a father,” added Hemlock in a bitter tone. They noticed how haughtily Gen. Hampton bore himself and how superciliously he glanced at the men as he passed up and down their ranks. When he had finished, he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards the house in the village where his quarters were established, followed by his escort. The troops were then dismissed and as each company filed away in the early twilight towards its respective camp, Morton said “Now is our time.” Hemlock rose, drew himself to his full height, seemed for a few seconds to be gathering strength, and then let out a screech, so piercing and terrific that Morton, who had not before heard the war-whoop, would not have believed a human being could make such a sound. It was the signal to Perrigo’s men, and they answered from different parts of the bush in similar fashion. The American soldiers, on their way to their tents, halted in amaze, while from new and unexpected quarters, rose the blood-curdling yell, giving the impression that they were being surrounded from the north and west by a horde of Indians, a foe of whom they were in mortal dread. Taken by surprise, they broke and ran towards the camp, and Morton could see the inmates of the tents swarming out and running to meet them, as if to find out the cause of alarm. Hemlock and Morton were now loading and firing as quickly as they could, the former never intermitting his ear-piercing shrieks, while the edge of the bush to their left was dotted with puffs of smoke from the guns of Perrigo’s band. “O for five hundred more!” cried Morton in his excitement, “and we would rout this army of cowards.” The confusion and clamor in the camp increased and the contradictory orders of officers were paid no heed to by men who only wanted to know where they could fly to escape the detested Indians. Amid the excitement rang out a bugle, and turning whence the sound came, Morton saw it was from the General’s headquarters and that, to its summons, horsemen were urging their way. “Huh!” exclaimed Hemlock, “these are scouts; some of them Indians. We must go, for they will hold the roads.” With a final yell he plunged into the bush and Morton followed. They had not gone far when Hemlock turned and grasped his shoulder. As they stood, the hoofs of advancing horses were heard. The sound came nearer and Morton guessed they were riding along the east and west road in front of where he stood and which they had been about to cross. The troop swept past and then the order “Halt!” was shouted. “Louis, take five men and scour the bush from the river up until you hear from the party who are searching the bush from above. The screeching devils who hid here cannot escape between you. We will patrol the road and shoot them if they do.” The motion of the men ordered to dismount was heard.

“Quick,” whispered Hemlock, “or they will be upon us,” and facing westward he led to the brink of what seemed to be a precipice, from the foot of which rose the sound of rushing water. Hemlock slipped his gun into his belt in front of him and did the same with Morton’s, then, before he knew what was meant, Morton was grasped in his iron clutch, unable to move, his head tucked into his breast, and with a wild fling over the edge of the bank they went rolling and crashing downwards, through the bushes and shrubs that faced it. On they rolled until a final bounce threw them into a pool of the river. Without a moment’s delay, Hemlock caught Morton’s right arm and dragged him a considerable distance down the narrow and shallow stream behind a clump of bushes. Breathless and excited by the rapid motion, Morton sank prone on the turf, while Hemlock, laying aside the guns, which the water had rendered useless, drew his tomahawk, which he held ready for use, while he bent forward listening intently. In a few minutes Morton became conscious of men stealthily approaching, and devoutly thanked God when he perceived they were all on the other side of the river from where they were concealed. On they came, searching every place of possible concealment, with a rapidity that only children of the woods can attain. Soon they were directly opposite and passed on. Hemlock relaxed his strained attitude, drew a long breath, and sat down beside Morton. “They did not think we had time to cross the river, but when they do not find us they will come back on this side.”

“What shall we do next?” asked Morton.

“Wait till it is dark enough to creep across the road at the bridge.”

“And if they come back before then?”

“Fight them,” abruptly answered Hemlock.

In the narrow gorge where they lay the gloom quickly gathered, and it soon grew so dark that Morton’s fears as to the searching-party returning were relieved. When the last streak of day had disappeared, Hemlock led the way, and they crept as quickly as the nature of the ground would permit down the river, whose noisy brawl blotted out the sound they made.

Coming out at a pond, where the water had been dammed to drive a small mill, Hemlock stopped and listened. The road with its bridge was directly in front, and it was likely guards were there posted. As they watched, the door of a house opened, and a man came out with a lantern. It was the miller going to the mill. As he swung the light its beams shone along the road, failing to reveal a sentinel. When he passed into the mill, Hemlock led the way under the shade of the trees that fringed the mill-pond, crossed the road, and down into the rocky bed of the stream on the other side. Pausing to let Morton gain his breath after the run, he said in his ear, “We are safe now and can wait for the moon.”

“Can’t we rejoin Perrigo?” asked Morton.

“No; scouts in woods over there; hide tonight and go back tomorrow.”

The strain of excitement over, Morton stretched himself on the ferns that abounded and quickly fell asleep.