He called for fifty volunteers to go on a most hazardous enterprise. He
got one thousand at once. Then he ordered all over twenty-five and under
eighteen to retire. This reduced the number to three hundred. Then,
all married men were retired, and thus again they were halved. Next he
ordered away all who smoked--Ah, deep philosopher that he was!--and from
the remnant he selected his fifty. Among them was Rolf. Then he divulged
his plan. It was nothing less than a dash on the new-made fort to spike
those awful guns--fifty men to dash into a camp of thirteen thousand.

Again he announced, "Any who wish to withdraw now may do so." Not a man
stirred.

Twenty of those known to be expert with tools were provided with hammers
and spikes for the guns, and Rolf was proud to be one of them.

In a night of storm and blackness they crossed the Saranac; dividing in
two bodies they crawled unseen, one on each side of the battery. Three
hundred British soldiers were sleeping near, only the sentries peered
into the storm-sleet.

All was ready when McGlassin's tremendous voice was heard, "Charge
front and rear!" Yelling, pounding, making all the noise they could, the
American boys rushed forth. The British were completely surprised, the
sentries were struck down, and the rest assured that Macomb's army was
on them recoiled for a few minutes. The sharp click, click, click of the
hammers was heard. An iron spike was driven into every touch hole;
the guns were made harmless as logs and quickly wheeling, to avoid the
return attack, these bold Yankee boys leaped from the muzzled redoubt
and reached their own camp without losing one of their number.



Chapter 80. The Bloody Saranac

Sir George Prevost had had no intention of taking Plattsburg, till
Plattsburg's navy was captured. But the moral effect of McGlassin's
exploit must be offset at once. He decided to carry the city by storm--a
matter probably of three hours' work.

He apportioned a regiment to each bridge, another to each ford near the
town, another to cross the river at Pike's Cantonment, and yet another
to cross twenty miles above, where they were to harry the fragments of
the American as it fled.

That morning Plattsburg was wakened by a renewal of the bombardment. The
heavy firing killed a few men knocked down a few walls and chimneys, but
did little damage to the earthworks.

It was surprising to all how soon the defenders lost their gun-shyness.
The very school-boys and their sisters went calmly about their business,
with cannon and musket balls whistling overhead, striking the walls and
windows, or, on rare occasions, dropping some rifleman who was over-rash
as he worked or walked on the ramparts.

There were big things doing in the British camp--regiments marching and
taking their places--storms of rifle and cannon balls raging fiercely.
By ten o'clock there was a lull. The Americans, from the grandfathers to
the school-boys, were posted, each with his rifle and his pouch full of
balls; there were pale faces among the youngsters, and nervous fingers,
but there was no giving way. Many a man there was, no doubt, who, under
the impulse of patriotism, rushed with his gun to join the ranks, and
when the bloody front was reached, he wished in his heart he was safe at
home. But they did not go. Something kept them staunch.

Although the lines were complete all along the ramparts, there were four
places where the men were massed. These were on the embankments opposite
the bridges and the fords. Here the best shots were placed and among
them was Rolf, with others of McGlassin's band.

The plank of the bridges had been torn up and used with earth to form
breastworks; but the stringers of the bridges were there, and a body of
red-coats approaching, each of them showed plainly what their plan was.

The farthest effective range of rifle fire in those days was reckoned at
a hundred yards. The Americans were ordered to hold their fire till
the enemy reached the oaks, a grove one hundred yards from the main
bridge--on the other bank.

The British came on in perfect review-day style. Now a hush fell on all.
The British officer in command was heard clearly giving his orders. How
strange it must have been to the veterans of wars in Spain, France,
and the Rhine, to advance against a force with whom they needed no
interpreter.

McGlassin's deep voice now rang along the defences, "Don't fire till I
give the order."

The red-coats came on at a trot, they reached the hundred-yard-mark.

"Now, aim low and fire!" from McGlassin, and the rattle of the Yankee
guns was followed by reeling ranks of red in the oaks.

"Charge!" shouted the British officer and the red-coats charged to the
bridge, but the fire from the embankment was incessant; the trail of the
charging men was cluttered with those who fell.

"Forward!" and the gallant British captain leaped on the central
stringer of the bridge and, waving his sword, led on. Instantly three
lines of men were formed, one on each stringer.

They were only fifty yards from the barricade, with five hundred rifles,
all concentrated on these stringers. The first to fall was the captain,
shot through the heart, and the river bore him away. But on and on came
the three ranks into the whistling, withering fire of lead. It was like
slaughtering sheep. Yet on and on they marched steadily for half an
hour. Not a man held back or turned, though all knew they were marching
to their certain death. Not one of them ever reached the centre of the
span, and those who dropped, not dead, were swallowed by the swollen
stream. How many hundred brave men were sacrificed that day, no one ever
knew. He who gave the word to charge was dead with his second and third
in command and before another could come to change the order, the river
ran red--the bloody Saranac they call it ever since.

The regiment was wrecked, and the assault for the time was over.

Rolf had plied his rifle with the rest, but it sickened him to see the
horrible waste of human valour. It was such ghastly work that he was
glad indeed when a messenger came to say he was needed at headquarters.
And in an hour he was crossing the lake with news and instructions for
the officer in command at Burlington.



Chapter 81. The Battle of Plattsburg

In broad daylight he skimmed away in his one man canoe.

For five hours he paddled, and at star-peep he reached the dock at
Burlington. The howl of a lost dog caught his ear; and when he traced
the sound, there, on the outmost plank, with his nose to the skies, was
the familiar form of Skookum, wailing and sadly alone.

What a change he showed when Rolf landed; he barked, leaped, growled,
tail-wagged, head-wagged, feet-wagged, body-wagged, wig-wagged and
zigzagged for joy; he raced in circles, looking for a sacrificial hen,
and finally uttered a long and conversational whine that doubtless was
full of information for those who could get it out.

Rolf delivered his budget at once. It was good news, but not conclusive.
Everything depended now on MacDonough. In the morning all available
troops should hurry to the defence of Plattsburg; not less than fifteen
hundred men were ready to embark at daylight.

That night Rolf slept with Skookum in the barracks. At daybreak, much
to the latter's disgust, he was locked up in a cellar, and the troops
embarked for the front.

It was a brisk north wind they had to face in crossing and passing down
the lake. There were many sturdy oarsmen at the sweeps, but they could
not hope to reach their goal in less than five hours.

When they were half way over, they heard the cannon roar; the booming
became incessant; without question, a great naval battle was on, for
this north wind was what the British had been awaiting. The rowers bent
to their task and added to the speed. Their brothers were hard pressed;
they knew it, they must make haste. The long boats flew. In an hour they
could see the masts, the sails, the smoke of the battle, but nothing
gather of the portentous result. Albany and New York, as well as
Plattsburg, were in the balance, and the oarsmen rowed and rowed and
rowed.

The cannon roared louder and louder, though less continuously, as
another hour passed. Now they could see the vessels only four miles
away. The jets of smoke were intermittent from the guns; masts went
down. They could see it plainly. The rowers only set their lips and
rowed and rowed and rowed.

Sir George had reckoned on but one obstacle in his march to Albany, an
obstruction named MacDonough; but he now found there was another called
Macomb.

It was obviously a waste of men to take Plattsburg by front assault,
when he could easily force a passage of the river higher up and take it
on the rear; and it was equally clear that when his fleet arrived and
crushed the American fleet, it would be a simple matter for the war
vessels to blow the town to pieces, without risking a man.

Already a favouring wind had made it possible for Downie to leave Isle
au Noix and sail down the lake with his gallant crew, under gallant
canvas clouds.

Tried men and true in control of every ship, outnumbering MacDonough,
outweighing him, outpointing him in everything but seamanship, they came
on, sure of success.

Three chief moves were in MacDonough's strategy. He anchored to the
northward of the bay, so that any fleet coming down the lake would have
to beat up against the wind to reach him; so close to land that any
fleet trying to flank him would come within range of the forts; and left
only one apparent gap that a foe might try to use, a gap in front
of which was a dangerous sunken reef. This was indeed a baited trap.
Finally he put out cables, kedges, anchors, and springs, so that with
the capstan he could turn his vessels and bring either side to bear on
the foe.

All was ready, that morning of September the 11th as the British fleet,
ably handled, swung around the Cumberland Head.

The young commander of the Yankee fleet now kneeled bareheaded with his
crew and prayed to the God of Battles as only those going into battle
pray. The gallant foe came on, and who that knows him doubts that he,
too, raised his heart in reverent prayer? The first broadside from the
British broke open a chicken coop on the Saratoga from which a game-cock
flew, and, perching on a gun, flapped his wings and crowed; so all the
seamen cheered at such a happy omen.

Then followed the fighting, with its bravery and its horrors--its
brutish wickedness broke loose.

Early in the action, the British sloop, Finch, fell into MacDonough's
trap and grounded on the reef.

The British commander was killed, with many of his officers. Still,
the heavy fire of the guns would have given them the victory, but for
MacDonough's foresight in providing for swinging his ships. When one
broadside was entirely out of action, he used his cables, kedges and
springs, and brought the other batteries to bear.

It was one of the most desperate naval fights the world has ever seen.
Of the three hundred men on the British flagship not more than five, we
are told, escaped uninjured; and at the close there was not left on any
one of the eight vessels a mast that could carry sail, or a sail that
could render service. In less than two hours and a half the fight was
won, and the British fleet destroyed.

To the God of Battles each had committed his cause: and the God of
Battles had spoken.

Far away to the southward in the boats were the Vermont troops with
their general and Rolf in the foremost. Every sign of the fight they had
watched as men whose country's fate is being tried.

It was a quarter after eleven when the thunder died away; and the
Vermonters were headed on shore, for a hasty landing, if need be, when
down from the peak of the British flag-ship went the Union Jack, and the
Stars and Stripes was hauled to take its place.

"Thank God!" a soft, murmuring sigh ran through all the boats and many
a bronzed and bearded cheek was wet with tears. Each man clasped hands
with his neighbour; all were deeply moved, and even as an audience
melted renders no applause, so none felt any wish to vent his deep
emotion in a cheer.



Chapter 82. Scouting for Macomb

General Macomb knew that Sir George Prevost was a cautious and
experienced commander. The loss of his fleet would certainly make a
radical change in his plans, but what change? Would he make a flank
move and dash on to Albany, or retreat to Canada, or entrench himself to
await reinforcements at Plattsburg, or try to retrieve his laurels by an
overwhelming assault on the town?

Whatever his plan, he would set about it quickly, and Macomb studied
the enemy's camp with a keen, discerning eye, but nothing suggesting a
change was visible when the sun sank in the rainy west.

It was vital that he know it at once when an important move was begun,
and as soon as the night came down, a score of the swiftest scouts were
called for. All were young men; most of them had been in McGlassin's
band. Rolf was conspicuous among them for his tall figure, but there
was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who had the reputation of being the
swiftest runner of them all.

They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether Prevost's
army was really retreating; second, what of the regiment he sent up the
Saranac to perform the flank movement.

Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some
followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another Vermonter,
skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded Cumberland Bend,
and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at the north side of
Treadwell's Bay.

Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight, set
off in three different westerly directions to strike the highway at
different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was given the northmost
route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals were arranged--in the woods
the barred-owl cry, by the water the loon; and they parted.

The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September night,
as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when he thought he
heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to relieve his ear-drums of
the heart-beat or to still the rushing of his breath.

In half an hour he reached the high-road. It was deserted. Then he heard
a cry of the barred owl:

Wa--wah--wa--wah Wa--wah--wa--hooooo-aw.

He replied with the last line, and the answer came a repeat of the whole
chant, showing that it might be owl, it might be man; but it was not the
right man, for the final response should have been the hooooo-aw. Rolf
never knew whence it came, but gave no further heed.

For a long time he sat in a dark corner, where he could watch the road.
There were sounds of stir in the direction of Plattsburg. Then later,
and much nearer, a couple of shots were fired. He learned afterward that
those shots were meant for one of his friends. At length there was a
faint tump ta tump ta. He drew his knife, stuck it deep in the ground,
then held the handle in his teeth. This acted like a magnifier, for now
he heard it plainly enough--the sound of a horse at full gallop--but so
far away that it was five minutes before he could clearly hear it while
standing. As the sound neared, he heard the clank of arms, and when it
passed, Rolf knew that this was a mounted British officer. But why, and
whither?

In order to learn the rider's route, Rolf followed at a trot for a mile.
This brought him to a hilltop, whither in the silent night, that fateful
north wind carried still the sound

     te--rump te--rump te--rump.

As it was nearly lost, Rolf used his knife again; that brought the rider
back within a mile it seemed, and again the hoof beat faded, te--rump
te--rump.

"Bound for Canada all right," Rolf chuckled to himself. But there was
nothing to show whether this was a mere despatch rider, or an advance
scout, or a call for reinforcements.

So again he had a long wait. About half-past ten a new and larger sound
came from the south. The knife in the ground increased but did not
explain it. The night was moonless, dark now, and it was safe to sit
very near the road. In twenty minutes the sound was near at hand in
five, a dark mass was passing along the road. There is no mistaking the
language of drivers. There is never any question about such and such a
voice being that of an English officer. There can be no doubt about
the clank of heavy wheels--a rich, tangy voice from some one in advance
said: "Oui. Parbleu, tows ce que je sais, c'est par la." A body of about
one hundred Britishers, two or three wagons, guns, and a Frenchman for
guide. Rolf thought he knew that voice; yes, he was almost sure it was
the voice of Francios la Colle.

This was important but far from conclusive. It was now eleven. He was
due at the canoe by midnight. He made for the place as fast as he could
go, which, on such a night, was slow, but guided by occasional glimpses
of the stars he reached the lake, and pausing a furlong from the
landing, he gave the rolling, quivering loon call:

Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o Ho-o-o-o-ooo-o. Hooo-ooo.

After ten seconds the answer came:

Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Hoo-ooo.

And again after ten seconds Rolf's reply:

Hoo-ooo.

Both his friends were there; Fiske with a bullet-hole through his arm.
It seemed their duty to go back at once to headquarters with the meagre
information and their wounded comrade. But Fiske made light of his
trouble--it was a mere scratch--and reminded them that their orders were
to make sure of the enemy's movements. Therefore, it was arranged that
Seymour take back Fiske and what news they had, while Rolf went on to
complete his scouting.

By one o'clock he was again on the hill where he had marked the
horseman's outward flight and the escorted guns. Now, as he waited,
there were sounds in the north that faded, and in the south were similar
sounds that grew. Within an hour he was viewing a still larger body
of troops with drivers and wheels that clanked. There were only two
explanations possible: Either the British were concentrating on Chazy
Landing, where, protected from MacDonough by the north wind, they
could bring enough stores and forces from the north to march overland
independent of the ships, or else they were in full retreat for Canada.
There was but one point where this could be made sure, namely, at the
forks of the road in Chazy village. So he set out at a jog trot for
Chazy, six miles away.

The troops ahead were going three miles an hour. Rolf could go five.
In twenty minutes he overtook them and now was embarrassed by their
slowness. What should he do? It was nearly impossible to make speed
through the woods in the darkness, so as to pass them. He was forced to
content himself by marching a few yards in their rear.

Once or twice when a group fell back, he was uncomfortably close and
heard scraps of their talk.

These left little doubt that the army was in retreat. Still this was the
mere chatter of the ranks. He curbed his impatience and trudged with
the troop. Once a man dropped back to light his pipe. He almost touched
Rolf, and seeing a marching figure, asked in unmistakable accents "Oi
soi matey, 'ave ye a loight?"

Rolf assumed the low south country English dialect, already familiar
through talking with prisoners, and replied: "Naow, oi oin't
a-smowking," then gradually dropped out of sight.

They were nearly two hours in reaching Chazy where they passed the
Forks, going straight on north. Without doubt, now, the army was bound
for Canada! Rolf sat on a fence near by as their footsteps went tramp,
tramp, tramp--with the wagons, clank, clank, clank, and were lost in the
northern distance.

He had seen perhaps three hundred men; there were thirteen thousand to
account for, and he sat and waited. He did not have long to wait; within
half an hour a much larger body of troops evidently was approaching from
the south; several lanterns gleamed ahead of them, so Rolf got over the
fence, but it was low and its pickets offered poor shelter. Farther back
was Judge Hubbell's familiar abode with dense shrubbery. He hastened
to it and in a minute was hidden where he could see something of the
approaching troops. They were much like those that had gone before, but
much more numerous, at least a regiment, and as they filled the village
way, an officer cried "Halt!" and gave new orders. Evidently they were
about to bivouac for the night. A soldier approached the picket fence
to use it for firewood, but an officer rebuked him. Other fuel, chiefly
fence rails, was found, and a score or more of fires were lighted on the
highway and in the adjoining pasture. Rolf found himself in something
like a trap, for in less than two hours now would be the dawn.

The simplest way out was to go in; he crawled quietly round the house to
the window of Mrs. Hubbell's room. These were times of nervous tension,
and three or four taps on the pane were enough to arouse the good lady.
Her husband had come that way more than once.

"Who is it?" she demanded, through a small opening of the sash.

"Rolf Kittering," he whispered, "the place is surrounded by soldiers;
can't you hide me?"

Could she? Imagine an American woman saying "No" at such a time.

He slipped in quietly.

"What news?" she said. "They say that MacDonough has won on the Lake,
but Plattsburg is taken."

"No, indeed; Plattsburgh is safe; MacDonough has captured the fleet. I
am nearly sure that the whole British army is retiring to Canada."

"Thank God, thank God," she said fervently, "I knew it must be so; the
women have met here and prayed together every day, morning and night.
But hush!" she laid a warning finger on her lips and pointed up toward
one of the rooms--"British officer."

She brought two blankets from a press and led up to the garret. At the
lowest part of the roof was a tiny door to a lumber closet. In this
Rolf spread his blankets, stretched his weary limbs, and soon was sound
asleep.

At dawn the bugles blew, the camp was astir. The officer in the house
arose and took his post on the porch. He was there on guard to protect
the house. His brother officers joined him. Mrs. Hubbell prepared
breakfast. It was eaten silently, so far as Rolf could learn. They paid
for it and, heading their regiment, went away northward, leaving the
officer still on the porch.

Presently Rolf heard a stealthy step in his garret, the closed door was
pushed open, and Mrs. Hubbell's calm, handsome face appeared, as, with a
reassuring nod, she set down a mug of coffee, some bread, and a bowl of
mush and milk. And only those who have travelled and fasted for twelve
hours when they were nineteen know how good it tasted.

From a tiny window ventilator Rolf had a view of the road in front.
A growing din of men prepared him for more troops, but still he was
surprised to see ten regiments march past with all their stores--a brave
army, but no one could mistake their looks; they wore the despondent air
of an army in full retreat.



Chapter 83. The Last of Sir George Prevost

The battle was over at Plattsburg town, though it had not been fought;
for the spirit of MacDonough was on land and water, and it was felt
by the British general, as well as the Yankee riflemen, as soon as the
Union Jack had been hauled from the mast of the Confiance.

Now Sir George Prevost had to face a momentous decision: He could
force the passage of the Saranac and march on to Albany, but his
communications would be cut, and he must rely on a hostile country for
supplies. Every day drew fresh bands of riflemen from the hills. Before
he could get to Albany their number might exceed his, and then what?
Unless Great Britain could send a new army or a fleet to support him, he
must meet the fate of Burgoyne. Prevost proposed to take no such chances
and the night of the 11th eight hours after MacDonough's victory, he
gave the order "Retire to Canada."

To hide the move as long as possible, no change was made till after
sundown; no hint was given to the beleaguered town; they must have no
opportunity to reap the enormous advantages, moral and material, of
harrying a retreating foe. They must arise in the morning to find the
enemy safely over the border. The plan was perfect, and would have been
literally carried out, had not he had to deal with a foe as clever as
himself.

How eagerly Rolf took in the scene on Chazy Road; how much it meant! how
he longed to fly at his fastest famous speed with the stirring news. In
two hours and a half he could surely let his leader know. And he gazed
with a sort of superior pride at the martial pomp and bravery of the
invaders driven forth.

Near the last was a gallant array of gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms
of scarlet and gold; how warlike they looked, how splendid beside the
ill-clad riflemen of Vermont and the rude hunters of the Adirondacks.
How much more beautiful is an iron sword with jewels, than a sword of
plain gray steel.

Dame Hubbell stood in her door as they went by. Each and all saluted
politely; her guard was ordered to join his regiment. The lady waved
her sun-bonnet in response to their courteous good-bye, and could not
refrain from calling out:

"How about my prophecy, Sir George, and those purses?"

Rolf could not see his hostess, but he heard her voice, and he saw the
astonishing effect:

The British general reined in his horse. "A gentleman's word is his
bond, madam," he said. "Let every officer now throw his purse at the
lady's feet," and he set the example. A dozen rattling thuds were heard
and a dozen officers saluting, purseless, rode away.

A round thousand dollars in gold the lady gathered on her porch that
morning, and to this day her grand-kin tell the tale.



Chapter 84. Rolf Unmasks the Ambush

Rolf's information was complete now, and all that remained was to report
at Plattsburg. Ten regiments he had counted from his peep hole. The
rear guard passed at ten o'clock. At eleven Mrs. Hubbell did a little
scouting and reported that all was quiet as far as she could see both
ways, and no enemy in sight anywhere.

With a grateful hand shake he left the house to cover the fourteen miles
that lay between Chazy and Plattsburg.

Refreshed and fed, young and strong, the representative of a just and
victorious cause, how he exulted in that run, rejoicing in his youth,
his country, his strength, his legs, his fame as a runner. Starting at
a stride he soon was trotting; then, when the noon hour came, he had
covered a good six miles. Now he heard faint, far shots, and going more
slowly was soon conscious that a running fight was on between his own
people and the body of British sent westward to hold the upper Saranac.

True to the instinct of the scout, his first business was to find out
exactly what and where they were. From a thick tree top he saw the
red-coats spotting an opening of the distant country. Then they were
lost sight of in the woods. The desultory firing became volley firing,
once or twice. Then there was an interval of silence. At length a mass
of red-coats appeared on the highway within half a mile. They were
travelling very fast, in full retreat, and were coming his way. On the
crest of the hill over which the road ran, Rolf saw them suddenly drop
to the ground and take up position to form a most dangerous ambuscade,
and half a mile away, straggling through the woods, running or striding,
were the men in the colours he loved. They had swept the enemy before
them, so far, but trained troops speedily recover from a panic, if they
have a leader of nerve, and seeing a noble chance in the angle of this
deep-sunk road, the British fugitives turned like boars at bay. Not a
sign of them was visible to the Americans. The latter were suffering
from too much success. Their usual caution seemed to have deserted them,
and trotting in a body they came along the narrow road, hemmed in by a
forest and soon to be hedged with cliffs of clay. They were heading for
a death-trap. At any price he must warn them. He slid down the tree, and
keeping cover ran as fast as possible toward the ambush. It was the only
hill near--Beekman's Rise, they call it. As far as possible from the
red-coats, but still on the hill that gave a view, he leaped on to a
high stump and yelled as he never did before: "Go back, go back! A
trap! A trap!" And lifting high his outspread hands he flung their palms
toward his friends, the old-time signal for "go back."

Not twice did they need warning. Like hunted wolves they flashed from
view in the nearest cover. A harmless volley from the baffled ambush
rattled amongst them, and leaping from his stump Rolf ran for life.

Furious at their failure, a score of red-coats, reloading as they ran,
came hot-footed after him. Down into cover of an alder swamp he plunged,
and confident of his speed, ran on, dashing through thickets and
mudholes. He knew that the red-coats would not follow far in such a
place, and his comrades were near. But the alder thicket ended at a
field. He heard the bushes crashing close at hand, and dashed down a
little ravine at whose lower edge the friendly forest recommenced. That
was his fatal mistake. The moment he took to the open there was a rattle
of rifles from the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.

It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious for
an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that hollow,
absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued their flight
with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was covered with blood. His
coat was torn and bloody; his trousers showed a ragged rent that was
reddened and sopping. His head was aching, and in his leg was the pain
of a cripplement. He knew it as soon as he tried to move; his right leg
was shattered below the knee. The other shots had grazed his arm and
head; the latter had stunned him for a time, but did no deeper damage.

He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends
might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength. Then he
remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he was lost in the
woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out his flint and steel, and
prepared to make a fire. But all the small wood he could reach was wet
with recent rains. An old pine stump was on the bank not far away; he
might cut kindling-wood from that to start his fire, and he reached for
his knife. Alas! its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger,
he might have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an
unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how was he
to call his friends?

He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain and lay
for a while. The September sun fell on his back and warmed him. He was
parched with thirst, but only thirty yards away was a little rill. With
a long and fearful crawling on his breast, he dragged himself to the
stream and drank till he could drink no more, then rested, washed his
head and hands, 'and tried to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun
had dropped behind the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and
the chill of the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.

Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint
sayings, and one above all was clear:

"Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done yer best,
keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right." Yes, that was what he
said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.

The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours brought
gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst strait of his lot.
Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to do but wait and die, and
from his groaning lips there came the half-forgotten prayer his mother
taught him long ago, "O God, have mercy on me!" and then he forgot.

When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but his
mind was clear.

"This is war," he thought, "and God knows we never sought it." And again
the thought: "When I offered to serve my country, I offered my life. I
am willing to die, but this is not a way of my choosing," and a blessed,
forgetfulness came upon him again.

But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so quickly
quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax again. In the
chill, dark hour when the life-lamp flickers most, he wakened to hear
the sweet, sweet music of a dog's loud bark; in a minute he heard it
nearer, and yet again at hand, and Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful
Skookum, was bounding around and barking madly at the calm, unblinking
stars.

A human "halloo" rang not far away; then others, and Skookum barked and
barked.

Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid hand
on the dying soldier's brow, and his heart. He opened his eyes, the man
bent over him and softly said, "Nibowaka! it's Quonab."

That night when the victorious rangers had returned to Plattsburg it
was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love ran strong.
The thrilling stories of the day were told, the crucial moment, the
providential way in which at every hopeless pass, some easy, natural
miracle took place to fight their battle and back their country's cause.
The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the
appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them--the
shooting, and his disappearance--all were discussed.

Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the
trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, "Where is Kittering?" So talk
was rife, and there was one who showed a knife he had picked up near the
ambuscade with R. K. on the shaft.

Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly left
the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb, his words
were few, but from his heart:

"It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go. I
feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go."

It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks. "You
may go, but how can you find him tonight?"

"Ugh, I find him," and the Indian pointed to a little, prick-eared,
yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.

"Success to you; he was one of the best we had," said the general, as
the Indian left, then added: "Take a couple of men along, and, here,
take this," and he held out a flask.

Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by his
three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking this way
and that--they should surely not be ambushed this time.

And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of disaster--the
loss of his knife--the thing of all others that roused in Rolf the
spirit of rebellion, was the way of life, his dungeon's key, the golden
chain that haled him from the pit.



Chapter 85. The Hospital, the Prisoners, and Home

There were wagons and buckboards to be had, but the road was rough,
so the three changed off as litter-bearers and brought him to the lake
where the swift and smooth canoe was ready, and two hours later they
carried him into the hospital at Plattsburg.

The leg was set at once, his wounds were dressed, he was warmed,
cleaned, and fed; and when the morning sun shone in the room, it was a
room of calm and peace.

The general came and sat beside him for a time, and the words he spoke
were ample, joyful compensation for his wounds. MacDonough, too, passed
through the ward, and the warm vibrations of his presence drove death
from many a bed whose inmate's force ebbed low, whose soul was walking
on the brink, was near surrender.

Rolf did not fully realize it then, but long afterward it was clear that
this was the meaning of the well-worn words, "He filled them with a new
spirit."

There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over; there was
not a man in the town who doubted that his country's cause was won.

Three weeks is a long time to a youth near manhood, but there was much
of joy to while away the hours. The mothers of the town came and read
and talked. There was news from the front. There were victories on the
high seas. His comrades came to sit beside him; Seymour, the sprinter,
as merry a soul as ever hankered for the stage and the red cups of life;
Fiske, the silent, and McGlassin, too, with his dry, humorous talk;
these were the bright and funny hours. There were others. There came a
bright-checked Vermont mother whose three sons had died in service at
MacDonough's guns; and she told of it in a calm voice, as one who speaks
of her proudest honour. Yes, she rejoiced that God had given her three
such sons, and had taken again His gifts in such a day of glory. Had
England's rulers only known, that this was the spirit of the land that
spoke, how well they might have asked: "What boots it if we win a few
battles, and burn a few towns; it is a little gain and passing; for
there is one thing that no armies, ships, or laws, or power on earth,
or hell itself can down or crush--that alone is the thing that counts or
endures--the thing that permeates these men, that finds its focal centre
in such souls as that of the Vermont mother, steadfast, proud, and
rejoicing in her bereavement."

But these were forms that came and went; there were two that seldom were
away--the tall and supple one of the dark face and the easy tread, and
his yellow shadow--the ever unpopular, snappish, prick-eared cur, that
held by force of arms all territories at floor level contiguous to,
under, comprised, and bounded by, the four square legs and corners of
the bed.

Quonab's nightly couch was a blanket not far away, and his daily,
self-given task to watch the wounded and try by devious ways and plots
to trick him into eating ever larger meals.

Garrison duty was light now, so Quonab sought the woods where the flocks
of partridge swarmed, with Skookum as his aid. It was the latter's
joyful duty to find and tree the birds, and "yap" below, till Quonab
came up quietly with bow and blunt arrows, to fill his game-bag; and
thus the best of fare was ever by the invalid's bed.

Rolf's was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week he was
eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily stronger.

Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the Indian
borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the highest
breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the whitening hills.
There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the
Shining One burnt the rugged world rim at Vermont, and, tapping softly
with one stick, he gazed upward, after the sacrificial thread of smoke,
and sang in his own tongue:

"Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is
singing."

Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf's bedside. Stories
of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far away lakes and
streams, memories of golden haired children waiting for father's or
brother's return from the wars. Wives came to claim their husbands,
mothers to bring away their boys, to gain again their strength at home.
And his own heart went back, and ever back, to the rugged farm on the
shores of the noble George.

In two weeks he was able to sit up. In three he could hobble, and he
moved about the town when the days were warm.

And now he made the acquaintance of the prisoners. They were closely
guarded and numbered over a hundred. It gave him a peculiar sensation
to see them there. It seemed un-American to hold a human captive; but
he realized that it was necessary to keep them for use as hostages and
exchanges.

Some of them he found to be sullen brutes, but many were kind and
friendly, and proved to be jolly good fellows.

On the occasion of his second visit, a familiar voice saluted him with,
"Well, Rolf! Comment ca va?" and he had the painful joy of greeting
Francois la Colle.

"You'll help me get away, Rolf, won't you?" and the little Frenchman
whispered and winked. "I have seven little ones now on La Riviere, dat
have no flour, and tinks dere pa is dead."

"I'll do all I can, Francois," and the picture of the desolate home,
brought a husk in his voice and a choke in his throat. He remembered too
the musket ball that by intent had whistled harmless overhead. "But," he
added in a shaky voice, "I cannot help my country's enemy to escape."

Then Rolf took counsel with McGlassin, told him all about the affair
at the mill, and McGlassin with a heart worthy of his mighty shoulders,
entered into the spirit of the situation, went to General Macomb
presenting such a tale and petition that six hours later Francis bearing
a passport through the lines was trudging away to Canada, paroled for
the rest of the war.

There was another face that Rolf recognized--hollow-cheeked,
flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of the
prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not recognize
Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering. How he escaped
from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of the war's first year.
Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable wreck his uncle was. He could
not do him any good. To identify him would have resulted in his being
treated as a renegade, so on the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw
that the prisoner had extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept
him abundantly supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him,
and kept away. They never met again.

The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great battle. A
few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort and guard the
prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful partings--the men
with homes, going home. And the thought that ever waxed in Rolf came on
in strength. He hobbled to headquarters. "General, can I get leave--to
go--he hesitated--home?"

"Why, Kittering, I didn't know you had a home. But, certainly, I'll give
you a month's leave and pay to date."

Champlain is the lake of the two winds; the north wind blows for six
months with a few variations, and the south wind for the other six
months with trifling.

Next morning a bark canoe was seen skimming southward before as much
north wind as it could stand, with Rolf reclining in the middle, Quonab
at the stern, and Skookum in the bow.

In two days they were at Ticonderoga. Here help was easily got at
the portage and on the evening of the third day, Quonab put a rope on
Skookum's neck and they landed at Hendrik's farm.

The hickory logs were blazing bright, and the evening pot was reeking as
they opened the door and found the family gathered for the meal.

"I didn't know you had a home," the general had said. He should have
been present now to see the wanderer's welcome. If war breeds such a
spirit in the land, it is as much a blessing as a curse. The air was
full of it, and the Van Trumpers, when they saw their hero hobble in,
were melted. Love, pity, pride, and tenderness were surging in storms
through every heart that knew. "Their brother, their son come back,
wounded, but proven and glorious." Yes, Rolf had a home, and in that
intoxicating realization he kissed them all, even Annette of the glowing
cheeks and eyes; though in truth he paid for it, for it conjured up in
her a shy aloofness that lasted many days.

Old Hendrik sputtered around. "Och, I am smile; dis is goood, yah. Vere
is that tam dog? Yah! tie him not, he shall dis time von chicken have
for joy."

"Marta," said Rolf, "you told me to come here if I got hurt. Well, I've
come, and I've brought a boat-load of stuff in case I cannot do my share
in the fields."

"Press you, my poy you didn't oughter brung dot stuff; you know we
loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer, and dot
Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war."

"Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!" and Annette
turned her scarlet cheeks away.

October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills; purple and
orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with white was the sky
above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.

"Oh, God of my fathers," Quonab used to pray, "when I reach the Happy
Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf-falling Moon, for that is the only
perfect time." And in that unmarred month of sunny sky and woodlands
purged of every plague, there is but one menace in the vales. For who
can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed woods without these two
begetting the dread red fury that devastates the hills?

Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze? Who,
indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in its growing
strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to meet in daily
meals and talk and still keep up the brother and sister play? It needs
only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to turn the comrade into Paul.

"Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don't quarrel bad, ain't it?"

"Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole," said Marta, "I fink dat farm
next ours purty good, but Rolf he say 'No Lake George no good.' Better
he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson."


Chapter 86. The New Era of Prosperity

As November neared and his leave of absence ended, Rolf was himself
again; had been, indeed, for two weeks, and, swinging fork or axe, he
had helped with many an urgent job on the farm.

A fine log stable they had rolled up together, with corners dovetailed
like cabinet work, and roof of birch bark breadths above the hay.

But there was another building, too, that Rolf had worked at night and
day. It was no frontier shack, but a tall and towering castle, splendid
and roomy, filled with loved ones and love. Not by the lake near by,
not by the river of his choice, but higher up than the tops of the high
mountains it loomed, and he built and built until the month was nearly
gone. Then only did he venture to ask for aid, and Annette it was who
promised to help him finish the building.

Yes, the Lake George shore was a land of hungry farms. It was off the
line of travel, too. It was neither Champlain nor Hudson; and Hendrik,
after ten years' toil with barely a living to show, was easily
convinced. Next summer they must make a new choice of home. But now it
was back to Plattsburg.

On November 1st Rolf and Quonab reported to General Macomb. There was
little doing but preparations for the winter. There were no prospects of
further trouble from their neighbours in the north. Most of the militia
were already disbanded, and the two returned to Plattsburg, only to
receive their honourable discharge, to be presented each with the medal
of war, with an extra clasp on Rolf's for that dauntless dash that
spiked the British guns.

Wicked war with its wickedness was done at last. "The greatest evil that
can befall a country," some call it, and yet out of this end came three
great goods: The interstate distrust had died away, for now they were
soldiers who had camped together, who had "drunk from the same canteen";
little Canada, until then a thing of shreds and scraps, had been fused
in the furnace, welded into a young nation, already capable of defending
her own. England, arrogant with long success at sea, was taught a lesson
of courtesy and justice, for now the foe whom she had despised and
insulted had shown himself her equal, a king of the sea-king stock. The
unnecessary battle of New Orleans, fought two weeks after the war was
officially closed, showed that the raw riflemen of Tennessee were
more than a match for the seasoned veterans who had overcome the great
Napoleon, and thus on land redeemed the Stars and Stripes.

The war brought unmeasured material loss on all concerned, but some
weighty lasting gains to two at least. On December 24, 1814, the Treaty
of Ghent was signed and the long rides were hung up on the cabin walls.
Nothing was said in the treaty about the cause of war--the right of
search. Why should they speak of it? If a big boy bullies a smaller one
and gets an unexpected knockdown blow, it is not necessary to have it
all set forth in terms before they shake hands that "I, John, of the
first part, to wit, the bully, do hereby agree, promise, and contract to
refrain in future forevermore from bullying you, Jonathan, of the second
part, to wit, the bullied." That point had already been settled by the
logic of events. The right of search was dead before the peace was born,
and the very place of its bones is forgotten to-day.

Rolf with Quonab returned to the trapping that winter; and as soon as
the springtime came and seeding was over, he and Van Trumper made their
choice of farms. Every dollar they could raise was invested in the
beautiful sloping lands of the upper Hudson. Rolf urged the largest
possible purchase now. Hendrick looked somewhat aghast at such a
bridge-burning move. But a purchaser for his farm was found with
unexpected promptness, one who was not on farming bent and the way kept
opening up.

The wedding did not take place till another year, when Annette was
nineteen and Rolf twenty-one. And the home they moved to was not exactly
a castle, but much more complete and human.

This was the beginning of a new settlement. Given good land in plenty,
and all the rest is easy; neighbours came in increasing numbers; every
claim was taken up; Rolf and Hendrik saw themselves growing rich, and
at length the latter was thankful for the policy that he once thought so
rash, of securing all the land he could. Now it was his making, for in
later years his grown-up sons were thus provided for, and kept at home.

The falls of the river offered, as Rolf had foreseen, a noble chance for
power. Very early he had started a store and traded for fur. Now, with
the careful savings, he was able to build his sawmill; and about it grew
a village with a post-office that had Rolf's name on the signboard.

Quonab had come, of course, with Rolf, but he shunned the house, and the
more so as it grew in size. In a remote and sheltered place he built a
wigwam of his own.

Skookum was divided in his allegiance, but he solved the puzzle by
dividing his time between them. He did not change much, but he did
rise in a measure to the fundamental zoological fact that hens are not
partridges; and so acquired a haughty toleration of the cackle-party
throng that assembled in the morning at Annette's call. Yes, he made
even another step of progress, for on one occasion he valiantly routed
the unenlightened dog of a neighbour, a "cur of low degree," whose ideas
of ornithology were as crude as his own had been in the beginning.