Rolf had left his pistol back at the fire; he dared not throw his
hatchet, as that would have left him unarmed. He stooped, picked up a
stick, and threw that; the wolf ducked so that it passed over, then,
stepping back from the log, stood gazing without obvious fear or menace.
The others were howling; Rolf felt afraid. He backed cautiously to the
fire, got his pistol and came again to the place, but nothing more did
he see of the wolf, though he heard them all night and kept up two great
fires for a protection.

In the morning he started as usual, and before half an hour he was aware
of a wolf, and later of two, trotting along his trail, a few hundred
yards behind. They did not try to overtake him; indeed, when he stopped,
they did the same; and when he trotted, they, true to their dog-like
nature, ran more rapidly in pursuit. How Rolf did wish for his long
rifle; but they gave no opportunity for a shot with the pistol. They
acted, indeed, as though they knew their safe distance and the exact
range of the junior gun. The scout made a trap for them by stealing back
after he had crossed a ridge, and hiding near his own trail. But the
wind conveyed a warning, and the wolves merely sat down and waited
till he came out and went on. All day long these two strange ban dogs
followed him and gave no sign of hunger or malice; then, after he
crossed a river, at three in the afternoon, he saw no more of them.
Years after, when Rolf knew them better, he believed they followed him
out of mild curiosity, or possibly in the hope that he would kill a deer
in which they might share. And when they left him, it was because they
were near the edge of their own home region; they had seen him off their
hunting grounds.

That night he camped sixty miles from Ticonderoga, but he was resolved
to cover the distance in one day. Had he not promised to be back in a
week? The older hands had shaken their heads incredulously, and he, in
the pride of his legs, was determined to be as good as his promise. He
scarcely dared sleep lest he should oversleep. At ten he lay down. At
eleven the moon was due to rise; as soon as that was three hours high
there would be light enough, and he proposed to go on. At least half
a dozen times he woke with a start, fearing he had overslept, but
reassured by a glance at the low-hung moon, he had slumbered again.

At last the moon was four hours high, and the woods were plain in the
soft light. A horned owl "hoo-hoo-ed," and a far-off wolf uttered
a drawn-out, soft, melancholy cry, as Rolf finished his dried meat,
tightened his belt, and set out on a long, hard run that, in the days of
Greece, would have furnished the theme of many a noble epic poem.

No need to consult his compass. The blazing lamp of the dark sky was his
guide, straight east his course, varied a little by hills and lakes, but
nearly the crow-flight line. At first his pace was a steady, swinging
stride; then after a mile he came to an open lake shore down which he
went at a six-mile trot; and then an alder thicket through which his
progress was very slow; but that soon passed, and for half a mile he
splashed through swamps with water a foot deep: nor was he surprised
at length to see it open into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in
view. "Splash, prong" their builders went at his approach, but he made
for the hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and
here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or down,
but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was followed by
a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush. For a moment it
continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or guessed.

"Trot, trot," he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or perhaps
three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill after hill,
swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he skirted round, and,
when he reached some little stream, he sought a log bridge or prodded
with a pole till he found a ford and crossed, then ran a mile or two to
make up loss of time.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart kept
unremitting rhythm.



Chapter 73. Rolf Makes a Record

Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow--the first cold dawn-light
showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty rolling stream.
Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak he made for this, the
Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft securely held, with paddle and
pole near by, and he pushed off with all the force of his young vigour.
Jumping and careening with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and
its hardy pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but
the long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes passed
before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft, then swung and
tramped and swung.

Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas. Tramp,
tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and hot, tramp,
tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his path, the gray deer
snorted, and the panther sneaked aside. Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and
the Washburn Ridge was blue against the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the
low, level, mile-long slope he went, and when the Day-god burnt the
upper hill-rim he was by brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen
miles.

By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride of
spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol, fired, then
hung the headless body while he made a camper's blaze: an oatcake, the
partridge, and river water were his meal. His impulse was to go on at
once. His reason, said "go slow." So he waited for fifteen minutes. Then
again, beginning with a slow walk, he ere long added to his pace. In
half an hour he was striding and in an hour the steady "trot, trot,"
that slackened only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was
on the Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that
empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in his
strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf cantered on
his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought of fear. He seemed
to know the creature better now; knew it as a brother, for it gave
no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot, trot, for the small joy of
running with a runner, as a swallow or an antelope will skim along by
a speeding train. For an hour or more it matched his pace, then left as
though its pleasant stroll was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.

The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon River
just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to rest. Here,
with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he made his final meal;
thirty eight miles had he covered since he rose; his clothes were torn,
his moccasins worn, but his legs were strong, his purpose sure; only
twenty-two miles now, and his duty would be done; his honours won. What
should he do, push on at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a
good fire by a little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a
sponge, he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever-ready needle
and put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on his
back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself for this the
final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from spent, and the iron
will that had yearly grown in force was there with its unconquerable
support.

Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog trot of
the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at length, and the
jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the spindrift blurred the
way; the heavy showers of spring came down and drenched him; but his
pack was safe and he trotted on and on. Then long, deep swamps of alder
barred his path, and, guided only by the compass, Rolf pushed in and
through and ever east. Barely a mile an hour in the thickest part
he made, but lagged not; drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but
doggedly, steadily on. At three he had made a scant seven miles; then
the level, open wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a
run; trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles remained.
Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he halted not and
faltered not, but on and on.

Tramp tramp, tramp tramp--endless, tireless, hour by hour. At five he
was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the goal; his limbs
were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he, but his heart was
filled with joy.

"News of battle, news of victory" he was bringing, and the thought lent
strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain with good roads now,
but the runner was so weary. He was striding, his running was done, the
sun was low in the west, his feet were bleeding, the courier was brain
worn and leg worn, but he strode and strode. He passed by homes but
heeded them not.

"Come in and rest," called one who saw nothing but a weary traveller.
Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode along. A mile--a short
mile now; he must hold out; if he sat down he feared he could not rise.
He came at last in sight of the fort; then, gathering all his force, he
broke into a trot, weak, so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely
have got up, and slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun
sank, he passed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the
general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a cheer,
and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his word, had made his
run, had brought the news, and had safely reached his goal.



Chapter 74. Van Trumper's Again

Why should the scout bringing good news be differently received from the
one that brings the ill? He did not make, the news, he simply did his
duty; the same in both cases. He is merely the telegraph instrument.
Yet it is so ever. King Pharaoh slew the bearer of ill-tidings; that was
human nature. And General Hampton brought in the tall stripling to his
table, to honour him, to get the fullest details, to glory in every
item as though it all were due to himself. Rolf's wonderful journey was
dilated on, and in the reports to Albany he was honourably mentioned for
exceptionally meritorious service as a bearer of despatches.

For three days Flying Kittering was hero of the post; then other runners
came with other news and life went on.

Hitherto the scouts had worn no uniform, but the execution of one of
their number, who was captured by the British and treated as a spy,
resulted in orders that all be formally enlisted and put in uniform.

Not a few withdrew from the service; some, like Quonab, reluctantly
consented, but Rolf was developing the fighting spirit, and was proud to
wear the colours.

The drill was tedious enough, but it was of short duration for him.
Despatches were to go to Albany. The general, partly to honour Rolf,
selected him.

"Are you ready for another run, Kittering?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then prepare to start as soon as possible for Fort George and Albany.
Do you want a mate?"

"I should like a paddler as far as Fort George."

"Well, pick your man."

"Quonab."

And when they set out, for the first time Rolf was in the stern, the
post of guidance and command. So once more the two were travelling again
with Skookum in the bow. It was afternoon when they started and the
four-mile passage of the creek was slow, but down the long, glorious
vista of the noble George they went at full canoe-flight, five miles an
hour, and twenty-five miles of the great fair-way were reeled and past
when they lighted their nightly fire.

At dawn-cry of the hawk they sped away, and in spite of a rising wind
they made six miles in two hours.

As they approached the familiar landing of Van Trumper's farm, Skookum
began to show a most zestful interest that recalled the blackened pages
of his past. "Quonab, better use that," and Rolf handed a line with
which Skookum was secured and thus led to make a new record, for this
was the first time in his life that he landed at Van Trumper's without
sacrificing a chicken in honour of the joyful occasion.

They entered the house as the family were sitting down to breakfast.

"Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! It is Rolf and Quonab; and vere is dot tam dog?
Marta, vere is de chickens? Vy, Rolf, you bin now a giant, yah. Mein
Gott, it is I am glad! I did tink der cannibals you had eat; is it dem
Canadian or cannibal? I tink it all one the same, yah!"

Marta was actually crying, the little ones were climbing over Rolf's
knee, and Annette, tall and sixteen now, stood shyly by, awaiting a
chance to shake hands. Home is the abiding place of those we love; it
may be a castle or a cave, a shanty or a chateau, a moving van, a tepee,
or a canal boat, a fortress or the shady side of a bush, but it is home,
if there indeed we meet the faces that are ever in the heart, and find
the hands whose touch conveys the friendly glow. Was there any other
spot on earth where he could sit by the fire and feel that "hereabout
are mine own, the people I love?" Rolf knew it now--Van Trumper's was
his home.

Talks of the war, of disasters by land, and of glorious victories on
the sea, where England, long the unquestioned mistress of the waves,
had been humbled again and again by the dauntless seamen of her Western
blood; talks of big doings by the nation, and, yet more interesting,
small doings by the travellers, and the breakfast passed all too soon.
The young scout rose, for he was on-duty, but the long rollers on the
lake forbade the going forth. Van's was a pleasant place to wait, but
he chafed at the delay; his pride would have him make a record on every
journey. But wait he must. Skookum tied safely to his purgatorial post
whined indignantly--and with head cocked on one side, picked out
the very hen he would like to utilize--as soon as released from his
temporary embarrassment. Quonab went out on a rock to bum some tobacco
and pray for calm, and Rolf, ever active, followed Van to look over
the stock and buildings, and hear of minor troubles. The chimney was
unaccountably given to smoking this year. Rolf took an axe and with two
blows cut down a vigorous growth shrubbery that stood above the chimney
on the west, and the smoking ceased. Buck ox had a lame foot and would
allow no one even to examine it. But a skilful ox-handler easily hobbles
an ox, throws him near some small tree, and then, by binding the lame
foot to the tree, can have a free hand. It proved a simple matter, a
deep-sunk, rusty nail. And when the nail was drawn and the place washed
clean with hot brine, kind nature was left in confidence to do the
rest. They drifted back to the house now. Tomas met them shouting out a
mixture of Dutch and English and holding by the cover Annette's book of
the "Good Girl." But its rightful owner rescued the precious volume and
put it on the shelf.

"Have you read it through, Annette?"

"Yes," was the reply, for she had learned to read before they left
Schuylerville.

"How do you like it?"

"Didn't like it a bit; I like 'Robinson Crusoe'," was the candid reply.

The noon hour came, still the white rollers were pounding the shore.

"If it does not calm by one o'clock I'll go on afoot."

So off he went with the packet, leaving Quonab to follow and await his
return at Fort George. In Schuyler settlement he spent the night and at
noon next day was in Albany.

How it stirred his soul to see the busy interest, the marching of men,
the sailing of vessels, and above all to hear of more victories on the
high seas. What mattered a few frontier defeats in the north, when the
arrogant foe that had spurned and insulted them before the world had now
been humbled again and again.

Young Van Cortlandt was away, but the governor's reception of him
reflected the electric atmosphere--the country's pride in her sons.

Rolf had a matter of his own to settle. At the bookseller's he asked for
and actually secured a copy of the great book--"Robinson Crusoe." It was
with a thrilling feeling of triumph that he wrote Annette's name in it
and stowed it in his bag.

He left Albany next day in the gray dawn. Thanks to his uniform, he got
a twenty-five mile lift with a traveller who drove a fast team, and the
blue water was glinting back the stars when he joined Quonab at Fort
George, some sixty miles away.

In the calm betwixt star-peep and sun-up they were afloat. It was a
great temptation to stop at Hendrik's for a spell, but breakfast was
over, the water was calm, and duty called him. He hallooed, then they
drew near enough to hand the book ashore. Skookum growled, probably at
the hens, and the family waved their aprons as he sped on. Thirty miles
of lake and four miles of Ticonderoga Creek they passed and the packet
was delivered in four days and three hours since leaving.

The general smiled and his short but amply sufficient praise was merely,
"You're a good 'un."



Chapter 75. Scouting in Canada

"Thar is two things," said Si Sylvanne to the senate, "that every
national crisis is bound to show up: first, a lot o' dum fools in
command; second a lot o great commanders in the ranks. An' fortunately
before the crisis is over the hull thing is sure set right, and the men
is where they oughter be."

How true this was the nation was just beginning to learn. The fools in
command were already demonstrated, and the summer of 1813 was replete
with additional evidence. May, June, and July passed with many
journeyings for Rolf and many times with sad news. The disasters at
Stony Creek, Beaver Dam, and Niagara were severe blows to the army on
the western frontier. In June on Lake Champlain the brave but reckless
Lieutenant Sidney Smith had run his two sloops into a trap. Thus the
Growler and the Eagle were lost to the Americans, and strengthened by
that much the British navy on the lake.

Encouraged by these successes, the British north of Lake Champlain made
raid after raid into American territory, destroying what they could not
carry off.

Rolf and Quonab were sent to scout in that country and if possible give
timely notice of raiders in force.

The Americans were averse to employing Indians in warfare; the British
entertained no such scruples and had many red-skinned allies. Quonab's
case, however, was unusual, since he was guaranteed by his white
partner, and now he did good service, for he knew a little French and
could prowl among the settlers without anyone suspecting him of being an
American scout.

Thus he went alone and travelled far. He knew the country nearly to
Montreal and late in July was lurking about Odletown, when he overheard
scattered words of a conversation that made him eager for more. "Colonel
Murray--twelve hundred men--four hundred men--"

Meanwhile Rolf was hiding in the woods about La Colle Mill. Company
after company of soldiers he saw enter, until at least five hundred were
there. When night came down, he decided to risk a scarer approach. He
left the woods and walked cautiously across the open lands about.

The hay had been cut and most of it drawn in, but there was in the
middle of the field a hay-cock. Rolf was near this when he heard sounds
of soldiers from the mill. Soon large numbers came out, carrying their
blankets. Evidently there was not room for them in the mill, and they
were to camp on the field.

The scout began to retreat when sounds behind showed that another
body of soldiers was approaching from that direction and he was caught
between the two. There was only one place to hide and that was beneath
the haycock. He lifted its edge and crawled under, but it was full of
thistles and brambles; indeed, that was why it was left, and he had the
benefit of all the spines about him.

His heart beat fast as he heard the clank of arms and the trampling;
they came nearer, then the voices became more distinct. He heard
unmistakable evidence too that both bodies were camping for the night,
and that he was nearly surrounded. Not knowing what move was best he
kept quiet. The men were talking aloud, then they began preparing their
beds and he heard some one say, "There's a hay-cock; bring some of
that."

A soldier approached to get an armful of the hay, but sputtered out a
chapter of malediction as his bare hands touched the masses of thistle
and briers. His companions laughed at his mishap. He went to the fire
and vowed he'd stick a brand in it and back he came with a burning
stick.

Rolf was all ready to make a dash for his life as soon as the cover
should take fire, and he peered up into the soldier's face as the latter
blew on the brand; but the flame had died, the thistles were not dry,
and the fire was a failure; so, growling again, the soldier threw down
the smoking stick and went away. As soon as he was safely afar, Rolf
gathered a handful of soil and covered the red embers.

It was a critical moment and his waiting alone had saved him.

Two soldiers came with their blankets and spread them near. For a time
they smoked and talked. One of them was short of tobacco; the other
said, "Never mind, we'll get plenty in Plattsburg," and they guffawed.

Then he heard, "As soon as the colonel" and other broken phrases.

It was a most difficult place for Rolf; he was tormented with thistles
in his face and down his neck; he dared not change his position; and
how long he must stay was a problem. He would try to escape when all was
still.

The nearer soldiers settled to rest now. All was very quiet when Rolf
cautiously peeped forth to see two dreadful things: first, a couple
of sentries pacing up and down the edges of the camp; second, a broad,
brilliant, rising moon. How horrible that lovely orb could be Rolf never
before knew.

Now, what next? He was trapped in the middle of a military camp
and undoubtedly La Colle Mill was the rendezvous for some important
expedition.

He had ample time to think it all over. Unless he could get away before
day he would surely be discovered. His uniform might save his life,
but soldiers have an awkward, hasty way of dealing summarily with a
spy--then discovering too late that he was in uniform.

From time to time he peered forth, but the scene was unchanged--the
sleeping regiment, the pacing sentries, the ever-brightening moon. Then
the guard was changed, and the sentries relieved selected of all places
for their beds, the bank beside the hay-cock. Again one of them went to
help himself to some hay for a couch; and again the comic anger as he
discovered it to be a bed of thorns. How thankful Rolf was for those
annoying things that pricked his face and neck.

He was now hemmed in on every side and, not knowing what to do, did
nothing. For a couple of hours he lay still, then actually fell asleep.
He was awakened by a faint rustling near his head and peered forth to
see a couple of field mice playing about.

The moon was very bright now, and the movements of the mice were plain;
they were feeding on the seeds of plants in the hay-cock, and from time
to time dashed under--the hay. Then they gambolled farther off and were
making merry over a pod of wild peas when a light form came skimming
noiselessly over the field. There was a flash, a hurried rush, a clutch,
a faint squeak, and one of the mice was borne away in the claws of its
feathered foe. The survivor scrambled under the hay over Rolf's face and
somewhere into hiding.

The night passed in many short naps. The bugle sounded at daybreak and
the soldiers arose to make breakfast. Again one approached to use a
handful of hay for fire-kindler, and again the friendly thistles did
their part. More and more now his ear caught suggestive words and
sounds--"Plattsburg"--"the colonel"--etc.

The breakfast smelt wonderfully captivating--poor Rolf was famished. The
alluring aroma of coffee permeated the hay-cock. He had his dried meat,
but his need was water; he was tormented with thirst, and stiff and
tortured; he was making the hardest fight of his life. It seemed long,
though doubtless it was less than half an hour before the meal was
finished, and to Rolf's relief there were sounds of marching and the
noises were drowned in the distance.

By keeping his head covered with hay and slowly raising it, he was safe
to take a look around. It was a bright, sunny morning. The hay-cock,
or thistle-cock, was one of several that had been rejected. It was a
quarter-mile from cover; the soldiers were at work cutting timber and
building a stockade around the mill; and, most dreadful to relate, a
small dog was prowling about, looking for scraps on the scene of the
soldiers' breakfast. If that dog came near his hiding-place, he knew the
game was up. At such close quarters, you can fool a man but not a dog.

Fortunately the breakfast tailings proved abundant, and the dog went off
to assist a friend of his in making sundry interesting smell analyses
along the gate posts of the stockade.



Chapter 76. The Duel

This was temporary relief, but left no suggestion of complete escape.
He lay there till nearly noon suffering more and more from the cramped
position and thirst, and utterly puzzled as to the next move.

"When ye don't like whar ye air, git up without any fuss, and go whar
ye want to be," was what Sylvanne once said to him, and it came to Rolf
with something like a comic shock. The soldiers were busy in the woods
and around the forges. In half an hour it would be noon and they might
come back to eat.

Rolf rose without attempting any further concealment, then stopped, made
a bundle of the stuff that had sheltered him and, carrying this on his
shoulder, strode boldly across the field toward the woods.

His scout uniform was inconspicuous; the scouts on duty at the mill saw
only one of themselves taking a bundle of hay round to the stables.

He reached the woods absolutely unchallenged. After a few yards in its
friendly shade, he dropped the thorny bundle and strode swiftly toward
his own camp. He had not gone a hundred yards before a voice of French
type cried "'Alt," and he was face to face with a sentry whose musket
was levelled at him.

A quick glance interchanged, and each gasped out the other's name.

"Francois la Colle!"

"Rolf Kittering! Mon Dieu! I ought to shoot you, Rolf; I cannot, I
cannot! But run, run! I'll shoot over your head," and his kindly eyes
filled with tears.

Rolf needed no second hint; he ran like a deer, and the musket ball
rattled the branches above his shoulders.

In a few minutes other soldiers came running and from La Colle they
heard of the hostile spy in camp.

"I shoot; I t'ink maybe I not hit eem; maybe some brood dere? No, dat
netting."

There were both runners and trackers in camp. They were like bloodhounds
and they took up the trail of the fugitive. But Rolf was playing his own
game now; he was "Flying Kittering." A crooked trail is hard to follow,
and, going at the long stride that had made his success, he left many
a crook and turn. Before two miles I they gave it up and the fugitive
coming to the river drank a deep and cooling draught, the first he had
had that day. Five miles through is the dense forest that lies between
La Colle and the border. He struck a creek affluent of the Richelieu
River and followed to its forks, which was the place of rendezvous with
Quonab.

It was evening as he drew near and after long, attentive listening he
gave the cry of the barred owl:

The answer came: a repetition of the last line, and a minute later the
two scouts were together.

As they stood, they were startled by a new, sudden answer, an exact
repetition of the first call. Rolf had recovered his rifle from its
hiding place and instantly both made ready for some hostile prowler;
then after a long silence he gave the final wail line "hoooo-aw" and
that in the woods means, "Who are you?"

Promptly the reply came:

"Wa wah wa wah Wa wah wa hoooo-aw."

But this was the wrong reply. It should have been only the last half.
The imitation was perfect, except, perhaps, on the last note, which
was a trifle too human. But the signal was well done; it was an expert
calling, either an Indian or some thoroughly seasoned scout; yet Quonab
was not deceived into thinking it an owl. He touched his cheek and
his coat, which, in the scout sign language, means "red coat," i. e.,
Britisher.

Rolf and his partner got silently out of sight, each with his rlile
cocked and ready to make a hole in any red uniform or badge that might
show itself. Then commenced a very peculiar duel, for evidently the
enemy was as clever as themselves and equally anxious to draw them out
of cover.

Wa-wah-wa hooo-aw called the stranger, giving the right answer in the
wrong place. He was barely a hundred yards off, and, as the two strained
their senses to locate him, they heard a faint click that told of his
approach.

Rolf turned his head and behind a tree uttered again the Wa-wah-a--hoo
which muffled by his position would convince the foe that he was
retreating. The answer came promptly and much nearer:

Wa--wah--wa--hoooo-aw.

Good! the medicine was working. So Rolf softened his voice still more,
while Quonab got ready to shoot.

The Wa--wa--hooo-aw that came in answer this time was startlingly clear
and loud and nearly perfect in intonation, but again betrayed by the
human timbre of the aw. A minute or two more and they would reach a
climax.

After another wait, Rolf muffled his voice and gave the single hooo-aw,
and a great broad-winged owl came swooping through the forest, alighted
on a tree overhead, peered about, then thrilled them with his weird:

Wa--hoo--wa--boo

Wa--hoo--wa--hooooooooo-aw, the last note with the singular human
quality that had so completely set them astray.



Chapter 77. Why Plattsburg Was Raided

     The owl's hull reputation for wisdom is built up on lookin'
     wise and keepin' mum.--Sayings of St Sylvanne

THE owl incident was one of the comedies of their life, now they had
business on hand. The scraps of news brought by Quonab pieced out with
those secured by Rolf, spelt clearly this: that Colonel Murray with
about a thousand men was planning a raid on Plattsburg.

Their duty was to notify General Hampton without delay.

Burlington, forty miles away, was headquarters. Plattsburg, twenty miles
away, was marked for spoil.

One more item they must add: Was the raid to baby land or water? If the
latter, then they must know what preparations were being made at the
British naval station, Isle au Noix. They travelled all night through
the dark woods, to get there, though it was but seven miles away, and in
the first full light they saw the gallant array of two warships, three
gunboats, and about fifty long boats, all ready, undoubtedly waiting
only for a change in the wind, which at this season blew on Champlain
almost steadily form the south.

A three-hour, ten-mile tramp through ways now familiar brought Rolf and
his partner to the north of the Big Chazy where the canoe was hidden,
and without loss of time they pushed off for Burlington, thirty miles
away. The wind was head on, and when four hours later they stopped for
noon, they had made not more than a dozen miles.

All that afternoon they had to fight a heavy sea; this meant they must
keep near shore in case of an upset, and so lengthened the course; but
it also meant that the enemy would not move so long as this wind kept
up.

It was six at night before the scouts ran into Burlington Harbour and
made for Hampton's headquarters.

His aide received them and, after learning that they had news, went in
to the general. From the inner room now they heard in unnecessarily loud
tones the great man's orders to, "Bring them in, sah."

The bottles on the table, his purple visage, and thick tongued speech
told how well-founded were the current whispers.

"Raid on Plattsburg? Ha! I hope so. I only hope so. Gentlemen," and
he turned to his staff, "all I ask is a chance to get at them--Ha, Ha!
Here, help yourself, Macomb," and the general pushed the decanter to a
grave young officer who was standing by.

"No, thank you, sir," was the only reply.

The general waved his hand, the scouts went out, puzzled and ashamed.
Was this the brains of the army? No wonder our men are slaughtered.

Now Macomb ventured to suggest: "Have you any orders, sir? These scouts
are considered quite reliable. I understand from them that the British
await only a change of wind. They have between one thousand and two
thousand men."

"Plenty of time in the morning, sah. Plattsburg will be the bait of my
trap, not one of them shall return alive," and the general dismissed his
staff that he might fortify himself against a threatened cold.

Another young man, Lieut. Thomas MacDonough, the naval commandant, now
endeavoured to stir him by a sense of danger. First he announced that
his long boats, and gunboats were ready and in six hours he could
transfer three thousand troops from Burlington to Plattsburg. Then he
ventured to urge the necessity for action.

Champlain is a lake of two winds. It had brown from the south for two
weeks; now a north wind was likely to begin any day. MacDonough urged
this point, but all in vain, and, shocked and humiliated, the young man
obeyed the order "to wait till his advice was asked."

The next day Hampton ordered a review, not an embarkation, and was not
well enough to appear in person.

The whole army knew now of the situation of affairs, and the militia in
particular were not backward in expressing their minds.

Next day, July 30th, the wind changed. Hampton did nothing. On the
morning of July 31st they heard the booming of guns in the north, and at
night their scouts came with the news that the raid was on. Plattsburg
was taken and pillaged by a force less than one third of those held at
Burlington.

There were bitter, burning words on the lips of the rank and file, and
perfunctory rebukes on the lips of the young officers when they chanced
to overhear. The law was surely working out as set forth by Si Sylvanne:
"The fools in command, the leaders in the ranks."

And now came news of fresh disasters--the battles of Beaverdam,
Stony Creek, and Niagara River. It was the same story in nearly every
case--brave fighting men, ill-drilled, but dead shots, led into traps by
incompetent commanders.

In September Lieutenant Macomb was appointed to command at Plattsburg.
This proved as happy an omen as it was a wise move. Immediately after,
in all this gloom, came the news of Perry's famous victory on Lake Erie,
marking a new era for the American cause, followed by the destruction of
Moraviantown and the British army which held it.

Stirred at last to action General Wilkinson sent despatches to Hampton
to arrange an attack on Montreal. There was no possibility of failure,
he said, for the sole defence of Montreal was 600 marines. His army
consisted of 8000 men. Hampton's consisted of 4000. By a union of these
at the mouth of Chateaugay River, they would form an invincible array.

So it seemed. Rolf had not yet seen any actual fighting and began to
long for the front. But his powers as a courier kept him ever busy
bearing despatches. The road to Sackett's Harbour and thence to
Ogdensburg and Covington, and back to Plattsburg he knew thoroughly, and
in his canoe he had visited every port on Lakes Champlain and George.

He was absent at Albany in the latter half of October and first of
November, but the ill news travelled fast. Hampton requested MacDonough
to "swoop down on Isle au Noix"--an insane request, compliance with
which would have meant certain destruction to the American fleet.
MacDonough's general instructions were: "Cooperate with the army, but
at any price retain supremacy of the lake," and he declined to receive
Hampton's order.

Threatening court-martials and vengeance on his return, Hampton now set
out by land; but at Chateaugay he was met by a much smaller force of
Canadians who resisted him so successfully that he ordered a retreat and
his army retired to Plattsburg.

Meanwhile General Wilkinson had done even worse. His army numbered 8000.
Of these the rear guard were 2500. A body of 800 Canadians harassed
their line of march. Turning to brush away this annoyance, the Americans
were wholly defeated at Chrystler's farm and, giving up the attack on
Montreal, Wilkinson crossed the St. Lawrence and settled for the winter
at Chateaugay.

In December, America scored an important advance by relieving Hampton of
his command.

As the spring drew near, it was clearly Wilkinson's first play to
capture La Colle Mill, which had been turned into a fortress of
considerable strength and a base for attack on the American border, some
five miles away.

Of all the scouts Rolf best knew that region, yet he was the one left
out of consideration and despatched with papers to Plattsburg. The
attack was bungled from first to last, and when Wilkinson was finally
repulsed, it was due to Macomb that the retreat was not a rout.

But good came out of this evil, for Wilkinson was recalled and the law
was nearly fulfilled--the incompetents were gone. General Macomb was in
command of the land force and MacDonough of the Lake.



Chapter 78. Rumours and Papers

MacDonough's orders were to hold control of the Lake. How he did it will
be seen. The British fleet at Isle au Noix was slightly stronger than
his own, therefore he established a navy yard at Vergennes, in Vermont,
seven miles up the Otter River, and at the mouth erected earthworks
and batteries. He sent for Brown (of the firm of Adam and Noah Brown)
a famous New York shipbuilder. Brown agreed to launch a ship of
twenty-four guns in sixty days. The trees were standing in the forest on
March 2d the keel was laid March 7th, and on April 11th the Saratoga was
launched--forty days after the timbers were green standing trees on the
hills.

Other vessels were begun and pushed as expeditiously. And now
MacDonough's wisdom in choice of the navy yard was seen, for a British
squadron was sent to destroy his infant fleet, or at least sink
stone-boats across the exit so as to bottle it up.

But their attempts were baffled by the batteries which the far-seeing
American had placed at the river's mouth.

The American victory at Chippewa was followed by the defeat at Lundy's
Lane, and on August 25th the city of Washington was captured by the
British and its public buildings destroyed. These calamities, instead of
dampening the spirits of the army, roused the whole nation at last to
a realization of the fact that they were at war. Fresh troops and
plentiful supplies were voted, the deadwood commanders were retired, and
the real men revealed by the two campaigns were given place and power.

At the same time, Great Britain, having crushed Napoleon, was in a
position to greatly reinforce her American army, and troops seasoned in
Continental campaigns were poured into Canada.

All summer Rolf was busied bearing despatches. During the winter he
and Quonab had built a birch canoe on special lines for speed; it would
carry two men but no baggage.

With this he could make fully six miles an hour for a short time, and
average five on smooth water. In this he had crossed and recrossed
Champlain, and paddled its length, till he knew every bay and headland.
The overland way to Sackett's Harbour he had traversed several times;
the trail from Plattsburg to Covington he knew in all weathers, and had
repeatedly covered its sixty miles in less than twenty-four hours on
foot. The route he picked and followed was in later years the line
selected for the military highway between these two camps.

But the chief scene of his activities was the Canadian wilderness at the
north end of Lake Champlain. Chazy, Champlain, Odelltown, La Colle
Mill, Isle au Noix, and Richelieu River he knew intimately and had also
acquired a good deal of French in learning their country.

It was characteristic of General Wilkinson to ignore the scout who knew
and equally characteristic of his successors, Izard and Macomb, to seek
and rely on the best man.

The news that he brought in many different forms was that the British
were again concentrating an army to strike at Plattsburg and Albany.

Izard on the land at Plattsburg and Champlain, and Macomb at Burlington
strained all their resources to meet the invader at fair terms. Izard
had 4000 men assembled, when an extraordinary and devastating order from
Washington compelled him to abandon the battle front at Champlain and
lead his troops to Sackett's Harbour where all was peace. He protested
like a statesman, then obeyed like a soldier, leaving Macomb in command
of the land forces of Lake Champlain, with, all told, some 3400 men. On
the day that Izard left Champlain, the British troops, under Brisbane,
advanced and occupied his camp.

As soon as Rolf had seen them arrive, and had gauged their number, he
sent Quonab back to report, and later retired by night ten miles up the
road to Chazy. He was well known to many of the settlers and was
welcome where ever known, not only because he was a patriot fighting his
country's battles, but for his own sake, for he was developing into
a handsome, alert, rather silent youth. It is notorious that in the
drawing-room, given equal opportunity, the hunter has the advantage over
the farmer. He has less self-consciousness, more calm poise. He is not
troubled about what to do with his feet and hands, and is more convinced
of his native dignity and claims to respect. In the drawin-room Rolf
was a hunter: the leading inhabitants of the region around received him
gladly and honoured him. He was guest at Judge Hubbell's in Chazy, in
September of 1814. Every day he scouted in the neighbourhood and at
night returned to the hospitable home of the judge.

On the 12th of September, from the top of a tall tree on a distant
wooded hill, he estimated the force at Champlain to be 10,000 to 15,000
men. Already their bodyguard was advancing on Chazy.

Judge Hubbell and anxious neighbours hastily assembled now, discussed
with Rolf the situation and above all, "What shall we do with our
families?" One man broke into a storm of hate and vituperation against
the British. "Remember the burning of Washington and the way they
treated the women at Bladensburg."

"All of which about the women was utterly disproved, except in one
case, and in that the criminal was shot by order of his own commander,"
retorted Hubbell.

At Plattsburg others maintained that the British had harmed no one.
Colonel Murray had given strict orders that all private property be
absolutely respected. Nothing but government property was destroyed and
only that which could be construed into war stores and buildings. What
further damage was done was the result of accident or error. Officers
were indeed quartered on the inhabitants, but they paid for what
they got, and even a carpet destroyed by accident was replaced months
afterward by a British officer who had not the means at the time.

So it was agreed that Hubbell with Rolf and the village fathers and
brothers should join their country's army, leaving wives and children
behind.

There were wet bearded cheeks among the strong, rugged men as they
kissed their wives and little ones and prepared to go, then stopped, as
horrible misgivings rose within. "This was war, and yet again, 'We have
had proofs that the British harmed no woman or child'." So they dashed
away the tears, suppressed the choking in their throats, shouldered
their guns, and marched away to the front, commending their dear ones to
the mercy of God and the British invaders.

None had any cause to regret this trust. Under pain of death, Sir George
Prevost enforced his order that the persons of women and children and
all private property be held inviolate. As on the previous raid, no
damage was done to non-combatants, and the only hardships endured were
by the few who, knowing nothing, feared much, and sought the precarious
safety of life among the hills.

Sir George Prevost and his staff of ten officers were quartered in Judge
Hubbell's house. Mrs. Hubbell was hard put to furnish them with meals,
but they treated her with perfect respect, and every night, not knowing
how long they might stay, they left on the table the price of their
board and lodging.

For three days they waited, then all was ready for the advance.

"Now for Plattsburg this week and Albany next, so good-bye, madam" they
said politely, and turned to ride away, a gay and splendid group.

"Good-bye, sirs, for a very little while, but I know you'll soon be back
and hanging your heads as you come," was the retort.

Sir George replied: "If a man had said that, I would call him out; but
since it is a fair lady that has been our charming hostess, I reply that
when your prophecy comes true, every officer here shall throw his purse
on your door step as he passes."

So they rode away, 13,000 trained men with nothing between them and
Albany but 2000 troops, double as many raw militia, and--MacDonough of
the Lake.

Ten times did Rolf cover that highway north of Plattsburg in the week
that followed, and each day his tidings were the same--the British
steadily advance.



Chapter 79. McGlassin's Exploit

There was a wonderful spirit on everything in Plattsburg, and the
earthly tabernacle in which it dwelt, was the tall, grave young man who
had protested against Hampton's behaviour at Burlington--Captain, now
General Macomb. Nothing was neglected, every emergency was planned for,
every available man was under arms. Personally tireless, he was ever
alert and seemed to know every man in his command and every man of
it had implicit confidence in the leader. We have heard of soldiers
escaping from a besieged fortress by night; but such was the inspiring
power of this commander that there was a steady leaking in of men from
the hills, undrilled and raw, but of superb physique and dead shots with
the ride.

A typical case was that of a sturdy old farmer who was marching through
the woods that morning to take his place with those who manned the
breastworks and was overheard to address his visibly trembling legs:
"Shake, damn you, shake; and if ye knew where I was leading you, you'd
be ten times worse."

His mind was more valiant than his body, and his mind kept control--this
is true courage.

No one had a better comprehension of all this than Macomb. He knew that
all these men needed was a little training to make of them the best
soldiers on earth. To supply that training he mixed them with veterans,
and arranged a series of unimportant skirmishes as coolly and easily as
though he were laying out a programme for an evening's entertainment.

The first of these was at Culver's Hill. Here a barricade was thrown up
along the highway, a gun was mounted, and several hundred riflemen were
posted under leaders skilled in the arts of harrying a foe and giving
him no chance to strike back.

Among the men appointed for the barricade's defence was Rolf and near
him Quonab. The latter had been seasoned in the Revolution, but it was
the former's first experience at the battle front, and he felt as most
men do when the enemy in brave array comes marching up. As soon as they
were within long range, his leader gave the order "Fire!" The rifles
rattled and the return fire came at once. Balls pattered on the
barricade or whistled above. The man next to him was struck and dropped
with a groan; another fell back dead. The horror and roar were overmuch.
Rolf was nervous enough when he entered the fight. Now he was unstrung,
almost stunned, his hands and knees were shaking, he was nearly
panic-stricken and could not resist the temptation to duck, as the balls
hissed murder over his head. He was blazing away, without aiming, when
an old soldier, noting his white face and shaking form, laid a hand
on his shoulder and, in kindly tones, said: "Steady, boy, steady;
yer losing yer head; see, this is how," and he calmly took aim, then,
without firing, moved the gun again and put a little stick to raise the
muzzle and make a better rest, then fired as though at target practice.
"Now rest for a minute. Look at Quonab there; you can see he's been
through it before. He is making a hit with every shot."

Rolf did as he was told, and in a few minutes his colour came back,
his hand was steady, and thenceforth he began to forget the danger and
thought only of doing his work.

When at length it was seen that the British were preparing to charge,
the Americans withdrew quickly and safely to Halsey's Corner, where was
another barricade and a fresh lot of recruits awaiting to receive their
baptism of fire. And the scene was repeated. Little damage was done to
the foe but enormous benefit was gained by the Americans, because it
took only one or two of these skirmishes to turn a lot of shaky-kneed
volunteers into a band of steady soldiers--for they had it all inside.
Thus their powder terror died.

That night the British occupied the part of the town that was north
of the Saranac, and began a desultory bombardment of the fortification
opposite. Not a very serious one, for they considered they could take
the town at any time, but preferred to await the arrival of their fleet
under Downie.

The fight for the northern half of the town was not serious, merely part
of Macomb's prearranged training course; but when the Americans retired
across the Saranac, the planks of the bridges were torn up, loop-holed
barricades were built along the southern bank, and no effort spared to
prepare for a desperate resistance.

Every man that could hold up a gun was posted on the lines of
Plattsburg. The school-boys, even, to the number of five hundred formed
a brigade, and were assigned to places where their squirrel-hunting
experiences could be made of service to their country.

Meanwhile the British had established a battery opposite Fort Brown. It
was in a position to do some material and enormous moral damage. On the
ninth it was nearly ready for bloody work, and would probably begin next
morning. That night, however, an extraordinary event took place, and
showed how far from terror-palsy were the motley troops in Plattsburg. A
sturdy Vermonter, named Captain McGlassin, got permission of Malcomb to
attempt a very Spartan sortie.