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.
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